Fic (Heroes): Phoenix Burns (Petrellicest)
Phoenix Burns
Heroes (NC-17, Petrellicest)
Author's Notes: Happy Birthday Marinwood! I wanted to write you something for your birthday - this is what came out. I pondered the logic behind writing something so - uh - bleak for a birthday but you come from Oz so I figured you would understand. Um - happy thoughts? Anyway, Petrelli-sex for you! Enjoy!
Also big damn thank yous to linaerys who did betas, listened to my angsting, and contributed almost as much to the ending as I did. She also saved the story from an all singing, all dancing finale which, well, you can take that up with her if you feel you've been robbed.
Peter wakes up screaming, arms flailing, hands grasping at air. He wakes up and the first thing he thinks is breathe and he chokes as he swallows air, still flailing, trying to hold on to the wall, the bed, anything. There’s a white light in his eyes and he feels his body boiling, burning, fire growing somewhere in his belly. He’s about to explode, and he screams.
“Easy,” a voice says, breaking through the screaming. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
There are hands on his shoulders, holding him down. He panics and pushes with his mind, wills the hands away. It doesn’t work; the hands are still there, holding on tightly, claw-like vises around his arms. Peter tells himself to focus, to slow his breathing and his pounding heart.
His vision clears. “Nathan?” He blinks, tilts his chin down to get a better view. There’s Nathan, whole, unscarred, alive. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe,” Nathan says. He lets go of Peter’s shoulders. They’re in a white room, unfurnished, a large window at one end. Peter’s wearing white, hospital issue, pyjamas, and Nathan is sitting on the edge of a standard, hospital-size bed. “Do you remember what happened?”
Peter puts his hand to his forehead and finds it damp with sweat. He’s warm and uncomfortable. He rubs his temple, closes his eyes and breathes out. He remembers the cars in the street, Claire, Mohinder, Matt, Isaac, running away from him, scared. He remembers Nathan saying, “I’m not leaving you,” and it was just like his dream, until Nathan took him by he hand and they shot up into the sky. There was a white light everywhere.
“I exploded,” Peter says. He remembers the energy storming inside him, trying to hold on because Nathan wouldn’t let go not matter how much Peter begged him to. Eventually he lost control and there was light everywhere. They should be dead. “But I’m here. You’re here.”
“You exploded over the ocean,” Nathan says. “Only you didn’t explode so much as release enough energy to flatten a city. You fell into the ocean, but it turns out you can’t drown either.”
Peter exploded; Nathan didn’t die. It’s not possible. Peter reaches up to touch Nathan’s face. He feels real. He feels alive. “How did you -?”
“I flew above the shockwave. Got a pretty nasty sunburn too.” He smiles briefly, too briefly to be reassuring. It can’t have been that simple.
Nathan looks fine, whole. Not blown to pieces like he was in Peter’s dream. He’s wearing a white shirt, a red pin striped tie. He looks the way he always does. “How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been unconscious for a week,” Nathan says. He covers Peter’s hand with his, presses Peter’s palm against his cheek. “You saved the world.”
It’s over. He didn’t die. No one died. It doesn’t feel like the end. For some reason he’s reminded of Claude. This isn’t the way he said it would happen.
Peter looks at his hand against Nathan’s cheek, wills it invisible. “I can’t- “ He tries to read Nathan’s mind and there’s nothing except his own voice in his head saying, it’s all wrong, it’s all wrong. “Something happened to me,” he says. “I’ve lost my - I can’t do it anymore.”
”I know,” Nathan says. He looks at the ceiling momentarily. Peter knows that look. Nathan the Politician uses it all the time. “This facility has a laboratory dedicated to people like you - like us. They’ve discovered a vaccine.”
Peter’s eyes go wide. He sits up, puts both hands on Nathan’s face. “Tell me you didn’t,” he says, looking into Nathan’s eyes. “Tell me you didn’t cure me.”
“Not yet,” Nathan says. “We’ve just started the treatment. But Peter -“ His eyes are pleading. “You can’t do it again. You can’t be like this forever.”
“What about you?” Peter says. “Did you take it too?”
Nathan looks down.
“No.” Peter shakes his head. “No, Nathan…”
“I’m not like you, Peter,” he says. “I never wanted this.”
They survived. It should be enough, it should be everything. Peter pulls Nathan against him, buries his face in Nathan’s neck. Peter should be angry, he knows. He thinks he should probably hate Nathan for what he did, but he doesn’t; not when Nathan was ready to die for Peter, not when Nathan shot into the sky, rode a mushroom cloud trying to keep them both alive. If Peter can have nothing else, he wants Nathan, he’ll choose Nathan every time, just the way Nathan chose him.
Peter feels tears streaking down his cheeks, soaking Nathan’s collar. He holds Nathan tightly and Nathan holds him back. They stay like that, unmoving, just holding on, until Peter feels Nathan’s hands at Peter’s back, stroking in circles, dipping below the hem of Peter’s t-shirt and pushing it up his back. He feels Nathan’s hands grasping his shoulders underneath his t-shirt, fingers pressing hard into his skin.
Peter pulls back and Nathan’s hands slide down Peter’s back, dragging across Peter’s ribcage to his chest, his stomach, his abdomen. Peter leans into Nathan’s touch, closes his eyes and feels every point of contact like electricity. It’s been so long.
“Where are we?” Peter whispers against Nathan’s cheek.
“Texas,” Nathan whispers back. “It’s okay. No one is watching.” He pulls Peter’s t-shirt over his head and lowers his mouth to Peter’s chest, pushing him backwards onto the bed, so he can draw a line in kisses down Peter’s sternum to his navel.
Peter raises his hips to meet Nathan’s mouth. He puts his hand in Nathan’s hair and it feels fine and soft in his fingers, so much like he remembers. Peter finds himself contemplating the ceiling, suddenly aware it lacks a visible light source. He wonders what he’s doing in Texas. “How did I get here?”
Nathan doesn’t answer. He undoes Peter’s drawstring pants, and tugs them down around his hips. Peter is only mildly surprised to find he isn’t wearing any underwear. He’s in a room he doesn’t recognize, in clothes he doesn’t recognize. The only thing familiar is Nathan’s mouth on him, sucking him in all the way. Nathan pushes Peter’s pants further down and Peter bends his knees so Nathan can take them off. Peter is naked now, pushing into Nathan’s mouth, willing himself to forget everything that’s happened to them as long as he can have this, always this. Peter closes his eyes, slides his hand across his chest, brushing his nipples, giving in. He feels like a traitor and he can’t tell whether it’s to himself or to Nathan.
Nathan slides his tongue once around the tip of Peter’s erection, and then lets go, leaves Peter cold and wet in the open air. He parts Peter’s knees, positions himself between them on the bed, and loosens his tie a little, lets it hang around his neck like a noose. Nathan undoes his pants, lowers them down around his thighs, and touches his erection poking out through the close of his shirt. He wraps himself in his fist, pumps into his hand, once, twice. “I brought you here,” Nathan says suddenly, like it’s an afterthought.
Peter spreads his knees wider, knowing what’s to come. He wants this. God, he wants this. It’s been so long - there were elections and campaigns, there was Heidi, their father, and there was the day they flew. And then there were Peter’s visions and Isaacs paintings and when Nathan wasn’t trying to save Peter from rushing headlong into his fate, he was insisting they were being punished.
It was never punishment to Peter. Even now as Nathan’s fingers push inside him, opening him, Peter thinks of it as salvation, a gift. He wants to tell Nathan, to remind him Peter’s always wanted this. He wants to say please because he used to know how to beg for it, make Nathan understand how much Peter needed him.
Only, there’s something Nathan isn’t telling him. Peter needs to know. “Why?” Peter says.
Nathan pushes in brutally, one long stroke, all the way in deep. Peter moans, and he arches his back, his muscles tensing all the way up his spine. He reaches blindly and finds Nathan’s neck, pulls Nathan down to kiss him as they move together. It’s desperate and awkward and they don’t fit together the way they used to. There’s too much time in between, too many changes. It’s been so long.
“We’re safe here,” Nathan says, his mouth against Peter’s jaw, sliding across to his neck. “You and me. Together. He’s taking care of us.”
“Who?” Peter says, only he knows, always has known the answer. He’s seen this room before, seen it in his dreams. He turns toward Nathan, and they kiss, connected this time, in synch. Their mouths open against each other as they breathe each other in.
Nathan breaks the kiss, backs onto his knees and pulls out, thrusts in again. Peter grips the bed and hangs on, just hangs on and lets Nathan take over.
“Linderman,” Nathan says, between thrusts. “He saved us, Peter. He can save us all.” He pushes hard, once, twice, three times and Peter bites down hard on his lip, feels tears stinging the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks as he comes. Nathan comes soon after, head back and eyes closed, looking the same, looking just like he always does.
Afterwards, Nathan gets dressed, tucks his shirt into his pants and rearranges his tie. He touches Peter’s forehead, briefly and turns to leave.
Peter reaches out, grabs his hand. “Where are you going?”
“You need to rest,” Nathan says quietly. He covers Peter’s hand with his. Peter can tell he doesn’t want to go. Something is pulling him away.
Peter holds on tighter, his fingers clenching. “Don’t leave - please?”
Nathan doesn’t move, and then he sits on the edge of the bed, holds Peter’s hand between his, fingers interlaced. “Sleep,” he says.
“Will you be here when I wake?”
“Of course,” Nathan says quickly. Too quickly. It sounds forced.
Peter wants to believe him. He’s tired, his eye-lids are heavy and he want to believe everything will be all right, that he’ll wake up in the morning and Nathan will save him, whatever that means. With Nathan beside him, he’s almost there. “Okay,” Peter says. He closes his eyes, breathes deep. “Okay.”
Peter wakes up alone. The room is the same, still too white, the light hurting his eyes. He turns his head and there are two figures at the window, hidden in shadows. One is Nathan; Peter would know his shape anywhere. The other is unrecogniseable but he touches Nathan’s arm briefly, before he leaves Nathan at the window alone.
The door opens and Nathan walks in smiling. He’s holding a kidney dish; Peter can’t see what’s inside. “Good morning,” Nathan says. He’s smiling his politician’s smile, the one that wins over women, senior citizens and minority voters. He’s always had a beautiful smile.
Peter feels a sudden chill. He sits up, wraps the thin, hospital issue blanket around him tightly, and pulls it up to his chin. He’s wearing the same pyjamas he was wearing when he woke up here the first time, only they feel freshly washed and smell faintly like bleach. Someone brought him clean pajamas in the night and dressed him. Peter doesn’t know whether to feel discomforted or grateful.
“Is it?” Peter says. “Morning, I mean.”
“Nearly noon,” Nathan says. “You’ve been asleep a long time.” He sits on the edge of the bed, like he did last night.
Peter’s eyes fall to the kidney dish. “What’s in there?”
Nathan takes a syringe and a vial from the dish, holds them up for Peter to see. He punctures the seal on the vial and fills the syringe with the brown coloured liquid inside. “You know what this is,” he says.
Peter does, and he shrinks back instinctively, like a frightened animal. He doesn’t know how many doses of the treatment he’s had, or how many more are to come. He doesn’t know how it works, whether he can salvage his abilities, or whether he’s already changed irreversibly. What he does know is that every dose takes him further away from the person who saved the world, and who nearly destroyed it.
“Roll up your sleeve,” Nathan says. He uses his father-voice, the kind he uses on the boys when he's telling them there's no such thing as monsters in the closet. Peter isn't so easily fooled. He hears the fear in Nathan’s voice.
“Nathan,” Peter says, shaking his head. “Don’t.”
Nathan lowers his voice. “Please, Peter,” he says. He sounds desperate. “Don’t make me force you. I couldn’t- ”
Nathan doesn’t have to say it; he’s a prisoner too. He’s given up everything, keeps giving, again, and again, and again, until there’s nothing left.
Nothing but each other. Peter hesitates, looks at Nathan once more, and then he rolls the sleeve of his pajama top up over his shoulder. Nathan meets Peter’s eyes and for a moment he looks grateful, relieved. He brushes the exposed skin with a swab, and jabs the needle in carefully, almost tenderly.
Peter watches, flinches slightly as the needle breaches the skin. In the silences he hears screaming, so distant, so far away, he wonders if he’s imagining it. He focuses on Nathan, buries the sound until it’s so far down, Peter can’t hear anything at all.
The End.
Heroes (NC-17, Petrellicest)
Author's Notes: Happy Birthday Marinwood! I wanted to write you something for your birthday - this is what came out. I pondered the logic behind writing something so - uh - bleak for a birthday but you come from Oz so I figured you would understand. Um - happy thoughts? Anyway, Petrelli-sex for you! Enjoy!
Also big damn thank yous to linaerys who did betas, listened to my angsting, and contributed almost as much to the ending as I did. She also saved the story from an all singing, all dancing finale which, well, you can take that up with her if you feel you've been robbed.
Peter wakes up screaming, arms flailing, hands grasping at air. He wakes up and the first thing he thinks is breathe and he chokes as he swallows air, still flailing, trying to hold on to the wall, the bed, anything. There’s a white light in his eyes and he feels his body boiling, burning, fire growing somewhere in his belly. He’s about to explode, and he screams.
“Easy,” a voice says, breaking through the screaming. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
There are hands on his shoulders, holding him down. He panics and pushes with his mind, wills the hands away. It doesn’t work; the hands are still there, holding on tightly, claw-like vises around his arms. Peter tells himself to focus, to slow his breathing and his pounding heart.
His vision clears. “Nathan?” He blinks, tilts his chin down to get a better view. There’s Nathan, whole, unscarred, alive. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe,” Nathan says. He lets go of Peter’s shoulders. They’re in a white room, unfurnished, a large window at one end. Peter’s wearing white, hospital issue, pyjamas, and Nathan is sitting on the edge of a standard, hospital-size bed. “Do you remember what happened?”
Peter puts his hand to his forehead and finds it damp with sweat. He’s warm and uncomfortable. He rubs his temple, closes his eyes and breathes out. He remembers the cars in the street, Claire, Mohinder, Matt, Isaac, running away from him, scared. He remembers Nathan saying, “I’m not leaving you,” and it was just like his dream, until Nathan took him by he hand and they shot up into the sky. There was a white light everywhere.
“I exploded,” Peter says. He remembers the energy storming inside him, trying to hold on because Nathan wouldn’t let go not matter how much Peter begged him to. Eventually he lost control and there was light everywhere. They should be dead. “But I’m here. You’re here.”
“You exploded over the ocean,” Nathan says. “Only you didn’t explode so much as release enough energy to flatten a city. You fell into the ocean, but it turns out you can’t drown either.”
Peter exploded; Nathan didn’t die. It’s not possible. Peter reaches up to touch Nathan’s face. He feels real. He feels alive. “How did you -?”
“I flew above the shockwave. Got a pretty nasty sunburn too.” He smiles briefly, too briefly to be reassuring. It can’t have been that simple.
Nathan looks fine, whole. Not blown to pieces like he was in Peter’s dream. He’s wearing a white shirt, a red pin striped tie. He looks the way he always does. “How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been unconscious for a week,” Nathan says. He covers Peter’s hand with his, presses Peter’s palm against his cheek. “You saved the world.”
It’s over. He didn’t die. No one died. It doesn’t feel like the end. For some reason he’s reminded of Claude. This isn’t the way he said it would happen.
Peter looks at his hand against Nathan’s cheek, wills it invisible. “I can’t- “ He tries to read Nathan’s mind and there’s nothing except his own voice in his head saying, it’s all wrong, it’s all wrong. “Something happened to me,” he says. “I’ve lost my - I can’t do it anymore.”
”I know,” Nathan says. He looks at the ceiling momentarily. Peter knows that look. Nathan the Politician uses it all the time. “This facility has a laboratory dedicated to people like you - like us. They’ve discovered a vaccine.”
Peter’s eyes go wide. He sits up, puts both hands on Nathan’s face. “Tell me you didn’t,” he says, looking into Nathan’s eyes. “Tell me you didn’t cure me.”
“Not yet,” Nathan says. “We’ve just started the treatment. But Peter -“ His eyes are pleading. “You can’t do it again. You can’t be like this forever.”
“What about you?” Peter says. “Did you take it too?”
Nathan looks down.
“No.” Peter shakes his head. “No, Nathan…”
“I’m not like you, Peter,” he says. “I never wanted this.”
They survived. It should be enough, it should be everything. Peter pulls Nathan against him, buries his face in Nathan’s neck. Peter should be angry, he knows. He thinks he should probably hate Nathan for what he did, but he doesn’t; not when Nathan was ready to die for Peter, not when Nathan shot into the sky, rode a mushroom cloud trying to keep them both alive. If Peter can have nothing else, he wants Nathan, he’ll choose Nathan every time, just the way Nathan chose him.
Peter feels tears streaking down his cheeks, soaking Nathan’s collar. He holds Nathan tightly and Nathan holds him back. They stay like that, unmoving, just holding on, until Peter feels Nathan’s hands at Peter’s back, stroking in circles, dipping below the hem of Peter’s t-shirt and pushing it up his back. He feels Nathan’s hands grasping his shoulders underneath his t-shirt, fingers pressing hard into his skin.
Peter pulls back and Nathan’s hands slide down Peter’s back, dragging across Peter’s ribcage to his chest, his stomach, his abdomen. Peter leans into Nathan’s touch, closes his eyes and feels every point of contact like electricity. It’s been so long.
“Where are we?” Peter whispers against Nathan’s cheek.
“Texas,” Nathan whispers back. “It’s okay. No one is watching.” He pulls Peter’s t-shirt over his head and lowers his mouth to Peter’s chest, pushing him backwards onto the bed, so he can draw a line in kisses down Peter’s sternum to his navel.
Peter raises his hips to meet Nathan’s mouth. He puts his hand in Nathan’s hair and it feels fine and soft in his fingers, so much like he remembers. Peter finds himself contemplating the ceiling, suddenly aware it lacks a visible light source. He wonders what he’s doing in Texas. “How did I get here?”
Nathan doesn’t answer. He undoes Peter’s drawstring pants, and tugs them down around his hips. Peter is only mildly surprised to find he isn’t wearing any underwear. He’s in a room he doesn’t recognize, in clothes he doesn’t recognize. The only thing familiar is Nathan’s mouth on him, sucking him in all the way. Nathan pushes Peter’s pants further down and Peter bends his knees so Nathan can take them off. Peter is naked now, pushing into Nathan’s mouth, willing himself to forget everything that’s happened to them as long as he can have this, always this. Peter closes his eyes, slides his hand across his chest, brushing his nipples, giving in. He feels like a traitor and he can’t tell whether it’s to himself or to Nathan.
Nathan slides his tongue once around the tip of Peter’s erection, and then lets go, leaves Peter cold and wet in the open air. He parts Peter’s knees, positions himself between them on the bed, and loosens his tie a little, lets it hang around his neck like a noose. Nathan undoes his pants, lowers them down around his thighs, and touches his erection poking out through the close of his shirt. He wraps himself in his fist, pumps into his hand, once, twice. “I brought you here,” Nathan says suddenly, like it’s an afterthought.
Peter spreads his knees wider, knowing what’s to come. He wants this. God, he wants this. It’s been so long - there were elections and campaigns, there was Heidi, their father, and there was the day they flew. And then there were Peter’s visions and Isaacs paintings and when Nathan wasn’t trying to save Peter from rushing headlong into his fate, he was insisting they were being punished.
It was never punishment to Peter. Even now as Nathan’s fingers push inside him, opening him, Peter thinks of it as salvation, a gift. He wants to tell Nathan, to remind him Peter’s always wanted this. He wants to say please because he used to know how to beg for it, make Nathan understand how much Peter needed him.
Only, there’s something Nathan isn’t telling him. Peter needs to know. “Why?” Peter says.
Nathan pushes in brutally, one long stroke, all the way in deep. Peter moans, and he arches his back, his muscles tensing all the way up his spine. He reaches blindly and finds Nathan’s neck, pulls Nathan down to kiss him as they move together. It’s desperate and awkward and they don’t fit together the way they used to. There’s too much time in between, too many changes. It’s been so long.
“We’re safe here,” Nathan says, his mouth against Peter’s jaw, sliding across to his neck. “You and me. Together. He’s taking care of us.”
“Who?” Peter says, only he knows, always has known the answer. He’s seen this room before, seen it in his dreams. He turns toward Nathan, and they kiss, connected this time, in synch. Their mouths open against each other as they breathe each other in.
Nathan breaks the kiss, backs onto his knees and pulls out, thrusts in again. Peter grips the bed and hangs on, just hangs on and lets Nathan take over.
“Linderman,” Nathan says, between thrusts. “He saved us, Peter. He can save us all.” He pushes hard, once, twice, three times and Peter bites down hard on his lip, feels tears stinging the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks as he comes. Nathan comes soon after, head back and eyes closed, looking the same, looking just like he always does.
Afterwards, Nathan gets dressed, tucks his shirt into his pants and rearranges his tie. He touches Peter’s forehead, briefly and turns to leave.
Peter reaches out, grabs his hand. “Where are you going?”
“You need to rest,” Nathan says quietly. He covers Peter’s hand with his. Peter can tell he doesn’t want to go. Something is pulling him away.
Peter holds on tighter, his fingers clenching. “Don’t leave - please?”
Nathan doesn’t move, and then he sits on the edge of the bed, holds Peter’s hand between his, fingers interlaced. “Sleep,” he says.
“Will you be here when I wake?”
“Of course,” Nathan says quickly. Too quickly. It sounds forced.
Peter wants to believe him. He’s tired, his eye-lids are heavy and he want to believe everything will be all right, that he’ll wake up in the morning and Nathan will save him, whatever that means. With Nathan beside him, he’s almost there. “Okay,” Peter says. He closes his eyes, breathes deep. “Okay.”
Peter wakes up alone. The room is the same, still too white, the light hurting his eyes. He turns his head and there are two figures at the window, hidden in shadows. One is Nathan; Peter would know his shape anywhere. The other is unrecogniseable but he touches Nathan’s arm briefly, before he leaves Nathan at the window alone.
The door opens and Nathan walks in smiling. He’s holding a kidney dish; Peter can’t see what’s inside. “Good morning,” Nathan says. He’s smiling his politician’s smile, the one that wins over women, senior citizens and minority voters. He’s always had a beautiful smile.
Peter feels a sudden chill. He sits up, wraps the thin, hospital issue blanket around him tightly, and pulls it up to his chin. He’s wearing the same pyjamas he was wearing when he woke up here the first time, only they feel freshly washed and smell faintly like bleach. Someone brought him clean pajamas in the night and dressed him. Peter doesn’t know whether to feel discomforted or grateful.
“Is it?” Peter says. “Morning, I mean.”
“Nearly noon,” Nathan says. “You’ve been asleep a long time.” He sits on the edge of the bed, like he did last night.
Peter’s eyes fall to the kidney dish. “What’s in there?”
Nathan takes a syringe and a vial from the dish, holds them up for Peter to see. He punctures the seal on the vial and fills the syringe with the brown coloured liquid inside. “You know what this is,” he says.
Peter does, and he shrinks back instinctively, like a frightened animal. He doesn’t know how many doses of the treatment he’s had, or how many more are to come. He doesn’t know how it works, whether he can salvage his abilities, or whether he’s already changed irreversibly. What he does know is that every dose takes him further away from the person who saved the world, and who nearly destroyed it.
“Roll up your sleeve,” Nathan says. He uses his father-voice, the kind he uses on the boys when he's telling them there's no such thing as monsters in the closet. Peter isn't so easily fooled. He hears the fear in Nathan’s voice.
“Nathan,” Peter says, shaking his head. “Don’t.”
Nathan lowers his voice. “Please, Peter,” he says. He sounds desperate. “Don’t make me force you. I couldn’t- ”
Nathan doesn’t have to say it; he’s a prisoner too. He’s given up everything, keeps giving, again, and again, and again, until there’s nothing left.
Nothing but each other. Peter hesitates, looks at Nathan once more, and then he rolls the sleeve of his pajama top up over his shoulder. Nathan meets Peter’s eyes and for a moment he looks grateful, relieved. He brushes the exposed skin with a swab, and jabs the needle in carefully, almost tenderly.
Peter watches, flinches slightly as the needle breaches the skin. In the silences he hears screaming, so distant, so far away, he wonders if he’s imagining it. He focuses on Nathan, buries the sound until it’s so far down, Peter can’t hear anything at all.
The End.