Heroes: Incognito (2/12)
Rating: PG-13 (a little language, a little violence, a little sex)
Word Count: 2,316
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: heroes_bigboom fic. Thanks for the beta, visiblemarket!
Summary: Notorious-inspired AU set chronologically in S1, in which a past schism pits the Company against Primatech. To prevent Primatech from destroying New York City, Company agent Peter Petrelli enlists ex-agent Claude Rains.
Chapter One
Peter pins the cell phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pours gin in a glass. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Peter, what’s your status?”
He resists rolling his eyes, deciding instead to play along one more time, “I made contact about five hours ago.”
“Five hours ago? What are you waiting for? Bring him in.”
Peter casts a glance in the direction of his bedroom, from which prodigious snores thunder.
“Yeah, I’m gonna need a little more time. He’s… indisposed at the moment.”
“What the hell does that mean? Pete, we don’t have time to waste here.”
“Nathan, trust me, he’s no good to anyone right now. And anyway, do you honestly think he’s just gonna fall in line, no questions asked? You’re my brother and I love you, but you’re not that good. So I’m asking for some time.”
A sigh blows down the line. “Fine. Bring him in as soon as you can. And keep your eyes open, we don’t know if he wasn’t already under surveillance before you got to him.”
“Affirmative,” Peter smirks.
“Grow up.” The line clicks off.
Peter chuckles and shakes his head. Tomato and lemon juice go in after the gin, and three splashes of Tabasco sauce follow that. He stirs it with a spoon, and goes to check on his patient.
***
Fuck. Fuck, I’ve been captured. Must’ve been- they’ve got my head in fucking vice!
Claude’s eyes crack open and he realizes it’s not cold metal pressing against his cheek but soft cotton. The same cradles his whole body. It would be comfortable if not for the thumping agony in his skull. He groans softly, willing the torment to stop even if it means life has to go with it.
He flinches at the scrape of a glass sliding along the surface of the nightstand beside him. It’s almost full of some threatening red substance.
“You better drink that,” says a dismayingly familiar and again bodiless voice.
Claude risks turning his head to look up and confirm that, yes, it is Mister Watchful- Peter, and, yes, he is just as screwed as he thought he was a moment ago. Probably more so.
“Go on, you’ll feel better.”
“Why do you care how I feel?” Claude asks through a mouth he discovers is coated in slime.
“I need your help, that’s why,” Peter says, expression earnest in a highly confusing and irritating way.
“In my experience the Company tends to help itself,” Claude retorts with all the bitterness he knows is his to cherish.
Peter just gives this soft smile, like Claude’s a bratty child who could be good if he was only made to listen. If he wasn’t seventy percent sure he’d puke and pass out if he tried to get up, Claude would hit him. Again. Did that first punch connect? He can’t tell. He should be paying attention.
“... of the game a while. Things are different now. We’ve been doing a lot of good. Helping people, the way it should’ve been the whole time.”
Claude blinks up at him. “And? Y’haven’t got to the part where this has anythin’ to do with me yet.”
Peter’s smile turns slightly embarrassed as he looks away and laughs. “Yeah, good point,” he pauses, looking out beyond the bed and stuffing his hands in his pockets, “Uh, do you want some breakfast before we get into all that?”
For a second time, Claude is rendered speechless in Peter’s presence. He’s completely at a loss as to what this strange young Company man could want with him. For lack of anything better to do, and because his stomach has apparently decided it needs to get food in instead of out, he says, “Yeah, sure.”
He’s treated to another utterly genuine-looking smile. “Good, great. Okay, let me help you up.” Peter leans in close, pulling Claude up with one hand behind his back and another holding his own between their chests. Later, Claude blames the wicked hangover for not headbutting Peter and making a run for it, instead of the gentle grip or the scent of clean clothes and something he can’t quite describe that fills his head with a much more pleasant dizziness.
And that goes away all too quickly, as Claude reaches a sitting position with his feet on the floor. Peter crouches in front of him, and suddenly the hands return, slim fingers sliding up over Claude’s ears and along his scalp. There’s nothing for it. It feels way too good to shake off. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Checking for head injuries. You went down kind of hard last night.” His eyes are on Claude’s now, but jumping back and forth. Checking my pupils, he dimly realizes. “You look okay. I wish I had a penlight or something to do a real test, but...” he shrugs and gives a boyish smile.
“Yeah.”
He stands. “All right, kitchen’s this way. Come in whenever you’re ready. I’m gonna start on some... I dunno- do you feel like eggs?”
“Sure.”
He grins, “Right, the greasier the better, huh? I’ll make bacon.” He leaves.
Claude stays sitting on the mattress, lost in a sea of confusion, fear, and arousal. Son of a bitch, he curses himself or Peter, he can’t tell which. He glances over at a window and sees rooftops- not good. Even if there is a fire escape, he’s in no condition to use one. Snap out of it, his mind commands. He needs to focus on what will get him out of here before Peter springs whatever trap he has waiting.
First thing first, Claude stands up. There’s a scary moment of vertigo and nausea, but his head stays attached to his neck and his feet don’t fly out from under him, so he takes a few steps. He finds his shoes at the foot of the bed and slides them on.
A low clatter from the kitchen makes him jump and finally remember that this might be easier if he was invisible. Once under his customary cloak, Claude pads through the cluttered apartment until he finds the front door unfortunately in the kitchen. Keeping an eye on Peter’s back where the agent stands over the range, Claude eases the deadbolt lock open. It stops halfway. Shit. He turns to it fully, scowling and wrapping both hands around the lock in hopes of applying more force with as little noise.
“That thing always sticks,” Peter remarks, making Claude whip back around with fists clenched. Peter holds up a hand, the other holds a pan of sizzling bacon. He watches Claude without a ghost of fear on his face. “I’ll find you again.”
“What do you want?”
“I was about to explain. I don’t know why you decided this was the best time to leave.”
Claude storms away from the door, grabs Peter by the front of his shirt, and marches him backwards against the range. “I woke up in the custody of the same Company I’ve spent the last seven years runnin’ for my life from, explain to me why I shouldn’t want to get as far away from here as possible!”
“Because it’s not the same Company,” Peter replies simply, expression still infuriatingly calm, “Did I come after you with a taser and a sedation kit? No. Have I made any attempt to call in other agents for the five and a half hours you’ve been here? No. So the question is, are you ready to sit down and hear me out?”
Claude can only stare. Common sense tells him to wrench open the door however he can and run. He doubts Peter will follow him. But then he remembers the other man’s simple statement- “I’ll find you again.” Which of course begs the question, how did he find Claude in the first place? And Claude has to know that, in case an agent less polite than this one does the same. He lets go of Peter’s shirt, and shuffles over to a convenient kitchen table.
Once he’s folded up in a chair, Peter places a pill bottle in front of him. "Take two of these. Your head’s gotta be killing you, and I didn’t see you drink any of that Bloody Mary.” A glass of orange juice appears next to the bottle.
With adrenaline draining away, the hangover announces its presence again by pounding out a tattoo behind Claude’s eyes. He damns the consequences and downs the pills, taking long gulps of juice with closed eyes. When the glass is empty he sets it down, and glances over to find Peter’s eyes on him. “‘S a bad habit of yours, the staring.”
“Sorry,” he says, gaze darting back to cooking food, “It’s just... I’ve heard a lot about you, so...”
“Can’t imagine what it is you’ve heard, exactly.” Claude fiddles with the empty glass, wishing he didn’t finish it all. He flinches when Peter appears at his side with the juice carton and a plate of steaming food in hand. Peter meets his glare with a smile, fixes his own plate, and sits down across from Claude.
Suppressing a self-deprecating smirk at the picture of domesticity they make, Claude digs into the food, always half-expecting the tranqs or poison to kick in.
“You might be happy to know,” Peter begins slowly, “that the Company you knew didn’t last much longer after- after you...”
“After I was executed?” Claude shoots a frosty glance at Peter, who has the grace to nod.
“Enough of the founders became dissatisfied, decided to break away. The others, the ones who didn’t- well, they weren’t too pleased with that.”
Claude snorts, memory allowing him to guess who fell into what camp.
“So, now, I’m with the ones who broke away. Who decided to help people, not imprison and experiment on them.”
“Well hooray for you.”
Peter leans forward, expression now gaining an almost painful earnestness. “That’s right. We’re doing a lot of good, like I said. But we could do more. We’re kind of distracted.”
Claude plays along. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. The others, the ones who stayed, they’re still out there. And they’re still dangerous.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Of course I do, that’s why you’re sitting here,” he sits back. “They’re planning something big. They’re all involved.”
An inkling of clarity comes to Claude. He puts down his fork, and sets his hands on his knees. “The bad guys are plannin’ something, so you come find me... You expect me to want to have anything, anything at all, to do with any of them, for any reason?” He stands up, head buzzing with anger and fear and disbelief that surprises him. “I’m leaving. An’ if I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
Peter says nothing until Claude reaches the door, “You can find out what happened to Haram.”
A new sledgehammer of emotions hits Claude. “Haram’s dead,” he snaps, “Heard it on the news.”
“Yeah, but the news is never going to tell you how he died, or who did it, or why.” Claude stares at the door, listening to a chair scrape out and footsteps across the floor. A hand, touch as light as it is warm, lands on his shoulder. “Hey... I wouldn’t ask you to get involved if I didn’t think it was worth it.”
“Fantastic,” Claude grumbles. “I feel much better.”
“... I knew Haram too, you know.”
That brings Claude’s eyes to Peter’s. “How?”
“The Company, your Company- they told you he was retired, right?”
He lets out a sardonic snort. “Always figured that as a not terribly subtle euphemism.” The sorrow that stabbed him the night before in the bar digs deeper, “Haram was...”
“Your partner,” Peter finishes with a small nod.
“First and best,” Claude says before he can stop himself. “Only person in that place I could trust. Are you sayin’ he... he’s been alive all this time?”
“One of the founders was having doubts then. He protected Haram, kept him hidden until the split happened. Then he worked with us. He taught me everything I know.”
Claude’s heart hurts. His throat tightens and his own hand wraps around Peter’s arm. “Why- why did he never come to me? At least let me know... Why’d he leave me with them?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you something, but... I can’t.”
When he thinks he might fall into Peter’s sorrowful eyes, Claude pulls away, escaping to the living room. “This is all completely mad. You know that, right?”
Peter follows him, arms crossed over his midsection, “All I know is I want to find out what happened to Haram as bad as you. And I want to stop those bastards from carrying out whatever plans they’re making. And I can’t do either of those things without you.”
Claude grimaces, hand coming up to his forehead. “This is a hell of a decision to make with a hangover, Pete.”
The other man cracks a smile and snicker. “Well, I’m just happy you haven’t left yet.”
“You should be.” Claude heaves a sigh and laces his fingers behind his head, gazing around the apartment as if among all the books and papers and novelty items there might be a way to change his entire life. His gaze falls on Peter, “All right, you win.”
A truer smile spreads across his face, “Really?”
Claude rolls his eyes, “Yeah, really, don’t make me start second-guessing myself.”
The smile grows and Peter’s eyes shine. “That’s great, that’s so great. Thank you...” He takes a step and Claude thinks for a strange second Peter’s about to hug him, but he doesn’t. Just reaches for Claude’s hand and shakes it firmly with both of his. It’s still a very good reminder of how they felt buried in his hair and Claude has to tell himself to let go when Peter does.
Chapter Three
Word Count: 2,316
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: heroes_bigboom fic. Thanks for the beta, visiblemarket!
Summary: Notorious-inspired AU set chronologically in S1, in which a past schism pits the Company against Primatech. To prevent Primatech from destroying New York City, Company agent Peter Petrelli enlists ex-agent Claude Rains.
Chapter One
Peter pins the cell phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pours gin in a glass. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Peter, what’s your status?”
He resists rolling his eyes, deciding instead to play along one more time, “I made contact about five hours ago.”
“Five hours ago? What are you waiting for? Bring him in.”
Peter casts a glance in the direction of his bedroom, from which prodigious snores thunder.
“Yeah, I’m gonna need a little more time. He’s… indisposed at the moment.”
“What the hell does that mean? Pete, we don’t have time to waste here.”
“Nathan, trust me, he’s no good to anyone right now. And anyway, do you honestly think he’s just gonna fall in line, no questions asked? You’re my brother and I love you, but you’re not that good. So I’m asking for some time.”
A sigh blows down the line. “Fine. Bring him in as soon as you can. And keep your eyes open, we don’t know if he wasn’t already under surveillance before you got to him.”
“Affirmative,” Peter smirks.
“Grow up.” The line clicks off.
Peter chuckles and shakes his head. Tomato and lemon juice go in after the gin, and three splashes of Tabasco sauce follow that. He stirs it with a spoon, and goes to check on his patient.
***
Fuck. Fuck, I’ve been captured. Must’ve been- they’ve got my head in fucking vice!
Claude’s eyes crack open and he realizes it’s not cold metal pressing against his cheek but soft cotton. The same cradles his whole body. It would be comfortable if not for the thumping agony in his skull. He groans softly, willing the torment to stop even if it means life has to go with it.
He flinches at the scrape of a glass sliding along the surface of the nightstand beside him. It’s almost full of some threatening red substance.
“You better drink that,” says a dismayingly familiar and again bodiless voice.
Claude risks turning his head to look up and confirm that, yes, it is Mister Watchful- Peter, and, yes, he is just as screwed as he thought he was a moment ago. Probably more so.
“Go on, you’ll feel better.”
“Why do you care how I feel?” Claude asks through a mouth he discovers is coated in slime.
“I need your help, that’s why,” Peter says, expression earnest in a highly confusing and irritating way.
“In my experience the Company tends to help itself,” Claude retorts with all the bitterness he knows is his to cherish.
Peter just gives this soft smile, like Claude’s a bratty child who could be good if he was only made to listen. If he wasn’t seventy percent sure he’d puke and pass out if he tried to get up, Claude would hit him. Again. Did that first punch connect? He can’t tell. He should be paying attention.
“... of the game a while. Things are different now. We’ve been doing a lot of good. Helping people, the way it should’ve been the whole time.”
Claude blinks up at him. “And? Y’haven’t got to the part where this has anythin’ to do with me yet.”
Peter’s smile turns slightly embarrassed as he looks away and laughs. “Yeah, good point,” he pauses, looking out beyond the bed and stuffing his hands in his pockets, “Uh, do you want some breakfast before we get into all that?”
For a second time, Claude is rendered speechless in Peter’s presence. He’s completely at a loss as to what this strange young Company man could want with him. For lack of anything better to do, and because his stomach has apparently decided it needs to get food in instead of out, he says, “Yeah, sure.”
He’s treated to another utterly genuine-looking smile. “Good, great. Okay, let me help you up.” Peter leans in close, pulling Claude up with one hand behind his back and another holding his own between their chests. Later, Claude blames the wicked hangover for not headbutting Peter and making a run for it, instead of the gentle grip or the scent of clean clothes and something he can’t quite describe that fills his head with a much more pleasant dizziness.
And that goes away all too quickly, as Claude reaches a sitting position with his feet on the floor. Peter crouches in front of him, and suddenly the hands return, slim fingers sliding up over Claude’s ears and along his scalp. There’s nothing for it. It feels way too good to shake off. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Checking for head injuries. You went down kind of hard last night.” His eyes are on Claude’s now, but jumping back and forth. Checking my pupils, he dimly realizes. “You look okay. I wish I had a penlight or something to do a real test, but...” he shrugs and gives a boyish smile.
“Yeah.”
He stands. “All right, kitchen’s this way. Come in whenever you’re ready. I’m gonna start on some... I dunno- do you feel like eggs?”
“Sure.”
He grins, “Right, the greasier the better, huh? I’ll make bacon.” He leaves.
Claude stays sitting on the mattress, lost in a sea of confusion, fear, and arousal. Son of a bitch, he curses himself or Peter, he can’t tell which. He glances over at a window and sees rooftops- not good. Even if there is a fire escape, he’s in no condition to use one. Snap out of it, his mind commands. He needs to focus on what will get him out of here before Peter springs whatever trap he has waiting.
First thing first, Claude stands up. There’s a scary moment of vertigo and nausea, but his head stays attached to his neck and his feet don’t fly out from under him, so he takes a few steps. He finds his shoes at the foot of the bed and slides them on.
A low clatter from the kitchen makes him jump and finally remember that this might be easier if he was invisible. Once under his customary cloak, Claude pads through the cluttered apartment until he finds the front door unfortunately in the kitchen. Keeping an eye on Peter’s back where the agent stands over the range, Claude eases the deadbolt lock open. It stops halfway. Shit. He turns to it fully, scowling and wrapping both hands around the lock in hopes of applying more force with as little noise.
“That thing always sticks,” Peter remarks, making Claude whip back around with fists clenched. Peter holds up a hand, the other holds a pan of sizzling bacon. He watches Claude without a ghost of fear on his face. “I’ll find you again.”
“What do you want?”
“I was about to explain. I don’t know why you decided this was the best time to leave.”
Claude storms away from the door, grabs Peter by the front of his shirt, and marches him backwards against the range. “I woke up in the custody of the same Company I’ve spent the last seven years runnin’ for my life from, explain to me why I shouldn’t want to get as far away from here as possible!”
“Because it’s not the same Company,” Peter replies simply, expression still infuriatingly calm, “Did I come after you with a taser and a sedation kit? No. Have I made any attempt to call in other agents for the five and a half hours you’ve been here? No. So the question is, are you ready to sit down and hear me out?”
Claude can only stare. Common sense tells him to wrench open the door however he can and run. He doubts Peter will follow him. But then he remembers the other man’s simple statement- “I’ll find you again.” Which of course begs the question, how did he find Claude in the first place? And Claude has to know that, in case an agent less polite than this one does the same. He lets go of Peter’s shirt, and shuffles over to a convenient kitchen table.
Once he’s folded up in a chair, Peter places a pill bottle in front of him. "Take two of these. Your head’s gotta be killing you, and I didn’t see you drink any of that Bloody Mary.” A glass of orange juice appears next to the bottle.
With adrenaline draining away, the hangover announces its presence again by pounding out a tattoo behind Claude’s eyes. He damns the consequences and downs the pills, taking long gulps of juice with closed eyes. When the glass is empty he sets it down, and glances over to find Peter’s eyes on him. “‘S a bad habit of yours, the staring.”
“Sorry,” he says, gaze darting back to cooking food, “It’s just... I’ve heard a lot about you, so...”
“Can’t imagine what it is you’ve heard, exactly.” Claude fiddles with the empty glass, wishing he didn’t finish it all. He flinches when Peter appears at his side with the juice carton and a plate of steaming food in hand. Peter meets his glare with a smile, fixes his own plate, and sits down across from Claude.
Suppressing a self-deprecating smirk at the picture of domesticity they make, Claude digs into the food, always half-expecting the tranqs or poison to kick in.
“You might be happy to know,” Peter begins slowly, “that the Company you knew didn’t last much longer after- after you...”
“After I was executed?” Claude shoots a frosty glance at Peter, who has the grace to nod.
“Enough of the founders became dissatisfied, decided to break away. The others, the ones who didn’t- well, they weren’t too pleased with that.”
Claude snorts, memory allowing him to guess who fell into what camp.
“So, now, I’m with the ones who broke away. Who decided to help people, not imprison and experiment on them.”
“Well hooray for you.”
Peter leans forward, expression now gaining an almost painful earnestness. “That’s right. We’re doing a lot of good, like I said. But we could do more. We’re kind of distracted.”
Claude plays along. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. The others, the ones who stayed, they’re still out there. And they’re still dangerous.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Of course I do, that’s why you’re sitting here,” he sits back. “They’re planning something big. They’re all involved.”
An inkling of clarity comes to Claude. He puts down his fork, and sets his hands on his knees. “The bad guys are plannin’ something, so you come find me... You expect me to want to have anything, anything at all, to do with any of them, for any reason?” He stands up, head buzzing with anger and fear and disbelief that surprises him. “I’m leaving. An’ if I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
Peter says nothing until Claude reaches the door, “You can find out what happened to Haram.”
A new sledgehammer of emotions hits Claude. “Haram’s dead,” he snaps, “Heard it on the news.”
“Yeah, but the news is never going to tell you how he died, or who did it, or why.” Claude stares at the door, listening to a chair scrape out and footsteps across the floor. A hand, touch as light as it is warm, lands on his shoulder. “Hey... I wouldn’t ask you to get involved if I didn’t think it was worth it.”
“Fantastic,” Claude grumbles. “I feel much better.”
“... I knew Haram too, you know.”
That brings Claude’s eyes to Peter’s. “How?”
“The Company, your Company- they told you he was retired, right?”
He lets out a sardonic snort. “Always figured that as a not terribly subtle euphemism.” The sorrow that stabbed him the night before in the bar digs deeper, “Haram was...”
“Your partner,” Peter finishes with a small nod.
“First and best,” Claude says before he can stop himself. “Only person in that place I could trust. Are you sayin’ he... he’s been alive all this time?”
“One of the founders was having doubts then. He protected Haram, kept him hidden until the split happened. Then he worked with us. He taught me everything I know.”
Claude’s heart hurts. His throat tightens and his own hand wraps around Peter’s arm. “Why- why did he never come to me? At least let me know... Why’d he leave me with them?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you something, but... I can’t.”
When he thinks he might fall into Peter’s sorrowful eyes, Claude pulls away, escaping to the living room. “This is all completely mad. You know that, right?”
Peter follows him, arms crossed over his midsection, “All I know is I want to find out what happened to Haram as bad as you. And I want to stop those bastards from carrying out whatever plans they’re making. And I can’t do either of those things without you.”
Claude grimaces, hand coming up to his forehead. “This is a hell of a decision to make with a hangover, Pete.”
The other man cracks a smile and snicker. “Well, I’m just happy you haven’t left yet.”
“You should be.” Claude heaves a sigh and laces his fingers behind his head, gazing around the apartment as if among all the books and papers and novelty items there might be a way to change his entire life. His gaze falls on Peter, “All right, you win.”
A truer smile spreads across his face, “Really?”
Claude rolls his eyes, “Yeah, really, don’t make me start second-guessing myself.”
The smile grows and Peter’s eyes shine. “That’s great, that’s so great. Thank you...” He takes a step and Claude thinks for a strange second Peter’s about to hug him, but he doesn’t. Just reaches for Claude’s hand and shakes it firmly with both of his. It’s still a very good reminder of how they felt buried in his hair and Claude has to tell himself to let go when Peter does.
Chapter Three