Samson, Don't Cry [Part Two]
Title: Samson, Don’t Cry [Part Two]
Characters: Gabriel Gray/Sylar and Peter Petrelli.
Rating: PG to PG-13
Warnings: Angst, depression, self-worth/self-respect issues, potential sabotage of relationship. (I would like to be warned for) Homosexual marriage implications.
Setting: Post the Wall/BNW/S4
A/N: My inspiration was Lornrocks’ fic Lead Me Out Onto The Moonlit Floor. I don’t particularly agree with its content, but it factored into my writing nonetheless.
A/N #2: Other inspiration (and title) was from Fergie’s Big Girls Don’t Cry. (This version is either Milo having a thing for Fergie or her requesting that amount of...tongue. Can we blame her?). I HIGHLY suggest watching and listening to the music while reading, but I can’t force you. (As a side note, I didn't know Milo/Peter was in this vid exactly when I first listened or wrote! I knew he was in Fergie's album 'The Duchess' so I was pleasantly surprised with the eye-candy. GB also geeked at the guitar bit).
A/N #3: I would like to credit my beta, Game_byrd. This is her birthday present since she liked it so much.
A/N #4: I own only the words and ideas I’ve written and that regrettably does not include characters or lyrics.
He stayed very close to Peter the rest of the day and cleaved to him all night, unsleeping. He watched Peter dream, though, wide hazel eyes shut in slumber, his REMs an art form to witness. As gently as he could, he ran his hands in Peter’s hair - shorter now than it had been before, but it had those precious bangs and a little curl at the back, how Gabriel liked it and knew Peter did, too. He wanted to see it grown out again so he could play with it and the man it belonged to.
Something in it symbolized Peter’s fighting spirit, that beautiful giving personality and the strength he carried, not only in his now-limited ability, but in his heart, mind and body. Gabriel knew he was the cause for much of the damage to Peter’s hair and it was a wound that would twist at the very sight of his lover and always would.
~The smell of your skin lingers on me now…~
His chest was tight like it hadn’t been for a long, long time. Peter had made that go away. The ache that had resided there his entire life had been slowly eased away by the steady tide of Peter’s presence. Peter was stable and loyal and loving. That was what he longed for, what he wanted…what he would miss.
How can I tell him…? He won’t understand. I’m bad news. Damaged goods.
~I hope you know, I hope you know…that this has nothing to do with you. It’s personal, myself and I. We got some straightening out to do.~
Just getting up from a bed with Peter in it took serious willpower he didn’t know he possessed. Warm and soft and intimate, the temptation to sleep and forget for a while longer was overpowering. Gabriel didn’t shower-he didn’t want to wake his…ex. He wondered how he’d be able to sleep now, being back on the run (he was so soft these days; he worried that he might not make it) with the nightmares and the loneliness…
~And I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket, but I’ve got to get a move-on with my life.~
He grabbed up Peter’s duffle since Gabriel didn’t own one. Peter wouldn’t let him. It was probably a healthy precaution. He balled up several pair of his socks and turned them to gold for Peter (stupid Peter who wouldn’t take the family money, not that Gabriel blamed him. EMT work didn’t pay and he wanted to know Peter would be taken care of) and left them on the kitchen table.
You’re being the one with cold feet; how pathetic can you get? You finally get proposed to and…he mused bitterly as he shoved his minimal clothes into the bag.
This was horrible. Gabriel wanted nothing more than to marry Peter and chain the poor empath to him forever and ever. It was impossible on a number of fronts. I’m not cut out for it and he’d figure that out right after the…(he couldn’t think the word ‘honeymoon’ even in his head)…then he’d be stuck. Catholic, no divorce. I can’t let him ruin his life over this.
He concluded that he hadn’t actually agreed to marry Peter; he’d just stated his desire to which wasn’t the same thing. Already he was trying to mentally prepare himself to waking up alone, not fixing breakfast for two, not hearing the other half of him speak and fill his ears and not being able to look at Peter’s sweet face and touch him and be touched. What am I gonna do?
~It’s time to be a big boy now. ~
It was still dark out and Peter wasn’t going to wake up for a while on a Saturday morning anyway. Gabriel had insisted Peter take the weekends off just so he didn’t commit death-by-job. Gabriel sat at the small kitchen table and stared sightless at a blank piece of paper. What do I say? That I’m not ready? I can’t be ready - I need him too much. It’s not right. It’s just…I can’t hang on him forever. I should have gotten my own place, damnit, what was I thinking? (He knew what he’d been thinking-needy, greedy, desperate and hungry for everything Peter had to offer. Peter was a drug, his specialized, so-special drug).
He’d always been aware that he was dragging Peter down to his level -- many of Peter’s standards had been forced into moderation and change just to keep Gabriel there at all, let alone in a relational sense. That had been….tough. A lot of work - but Peter and Gabriel had ignored it, quite happily so. Surely he had the balls to tell Peter what was best for him.
~And big boys don’t cry.~
He wasted the time that was supposed to be spent writing a note of…explanation, of goodbye. The time that was supposed to be his get-away and his escape to a life of unshared danger and lonely pain. Hours passed; he couldn’t move. Mental gears had locked up in unbearable tension that sought an outlet.
His tears started slowly in counterpoint to his racing thoughts. His desires, his needs were conflicting with Peter’s true needs, the ones the simple medic couldn’t see - the big picture. Gabriel could never fit into Peter’s world and Gabriel’s world would kill Peter.
He couldn’t see through the hot moisture in his eyes and soon after he couldn’t breathe through his nose. After a long time he gave up trying to hold his head up and rested it on his arms, folding over the table. He choked on his sobs, barely aware that his tears and snot were leaving a rather more disgusting, emotional note on the paper. He couldn’t think and prayed not to feel, but once he’d started he couldn’t stop.
Everything was painful, stifling: his throat hurt, his head was swollen and his chest was icy and eventually he was hiccupping to breathe, shoulders shuddering violently as he tried to curl around the table’s edge in acute misery and loss. All the while the sane part of his brain screamed ‘Stop! Write something and get out!’ hoping to be heard over the wretched state of his despair.
~Don’t cry. ~
Oh no.
He’d woken Peter up. He heard the shuffling steps, the scuff as Peter stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, seeing him a mess with the duffle, the runny paper and the gold socks. Shit, stop crying…shit, shit, shit, what to do? Get out, no, explain, no…explain then get out…push him back….he needs to…back away, keep him away…stay away. Gabriel didn’t look up, didn’t want to show his face.
“Gabriel…what are you doing?” Peter asked slowly, gently yet sadly, the implicit trust rooted deep in his voice.
Gabriel was struck dumb with every flavor of fear. What do I say to that?
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
TBC?
Characters: Gabriel Gray/Sylar and Peter Petrelli.
Rating: PG to PG-13
Warnings: Angst, depression, self-worth/self-respect issues, potential sabotage of relationship. (I would like to be warned for) Homosexual marriage implications.
Setting: Post the Wall/BNW/S4
A/N: My inspiration was Lornrocks’ fic Lead Me Out Onto The Moonlit Floor. I don’t particularly agree with its content, but it factored into my writing nonetheless.
A/N #2: Other inspiration (and title) was from Fergie’s Big Girls Don’t Cry. (This version is either Milo having a thing for Fergie or her requesting that amount of...tongue. Can we blame her?). I HIGHLY suggest watching and listening to the music while reading, but I can’t force you. (As a side note, I didn't know Milo/Peter was in this vid exactly when I first listened or wrote! I knew he was in Fergie's album 'The Duchess' so I was pleasantly surprised with the eye-candy. GB also geeked at the guitar bit).
A/N #3: I would like to credit my beta, Game_byrd. This is her birthday present since she liked it so much.
A/N #4: I own only the words and ideas I’ve written and that regrettably does not include characters or lyrics.
He stayed very close to Peter the rest of the day and cleaved to him all night, unsleeping. He watched Peter dream, though, wide hazel eyes shut in slumber, his REMs an art form to witness. As gently as he could, he ran his hands in Peter’s hair - shorter now than it had been before, but it had those precious bangs and a little curl at the back, how Gabriel liked it and knew Peter did, too. He wanted to see it grown out again so he could play with it and the man it belonged to.
Something in it symbolized Peter’s fighting spirit, that beautiful giving personality and the strength he carried, not only in his now-limited ability, but in his heart, mind and body. Gabriel knew he was the cause for much of the damage to Peter’s hair and it was a wound that would twist at the very sight of his lover and always would.
~The smell of your skin lingers on me now…~
His chest was tight like it hadn’t been for a long, long time. Peter had made that go away. The ache that had resided there his entire life had been slowly eased away by the steady tide of Peter’s presence. Peter was stable and loyal and loving. That was what he longed for, what he wanted…what he would miss.
How can I tell him…? He won’t understand. I’m bad news. Damaged goods.
~I hope you know, I hope you know…that this has nothing to do with you. It’s personal, myself and I. We got some straightening out to do.~
Just getting up from a bed with Peter in it took serious willpower he didn’t know he possessed. Warm and soft and intimate, the temptation to sleep and forget for a while longer was overpowering. Gabriel didn’t shower-he didn’t want to wake his…ex. He wondered how he’d be able to sleep now, being back on the run (he was so soft these days; he worried that he might not make it) with the nightmares and the loneliness…
~And I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket, but I’ve got to get a move-on with my life.~
He grabbed up Peter’s duffle since Gabriel didn’t own one. Peter wouldn’t let him. It was probably a healthy precaution. He balled up several pair of his socks and turned them to gold for Peter (stupid Peter who wouldn’t take the family money, not that Gabriel blamed him. EMT work didn’t pay and he wanted to know Peter would be taken care of) and left them on the kitchen table.
You’re being the one with cold feet; how pathetic can you get? You finally get proposed to and…he mused bitterly as he shoved his minimal clothes into the bag.
This was horrible. Gabriel wanted nothing more than to marry Peter and chain the poor empath to him forever and ever. It was impossible on a number of fronts. I’m not cut out for it and he’d figure that out right after the…(he couldn’t think the word ‘honeymoon’ even in his head)…then he’d be stuck. Catholic, no divorce. I can’t let him ruin his life over this.
He concluded that he hadn’t actually agreed to marry Peter; he’d just stated his desire to which wasn’t the same thing. Already he was trying to mentally prepare himself to waking up alone, not fixing breakfast for two, not hearing the other half of him speak and fill his ears and not being able to look at Peter’s sweet face and touch him and be touched. What am I gonna do?
~It’s time to be a big boy now. ~
It was still dark out and Peter wasn’t going to wake up for a while on a Saturday morning anyway. Gabriel had insisted Peter take the weekends off just so he didn’t commit death-by-job. Gabriel sat at the small kitchen table and stared sightless at a blank piece of paper. What do I say? That I’m not ready? I can’t be ready - I need him too much. It’s not right. It’s just…I can’t hang on him forever. I should have gotten my own place, damnit, what was I thinking? (He knew what he’d been thinking-needy, greedy, desperate and hungry for everything Peter had to offer. Peter was a drug, his specialized, so-special drug).
He’d always been aware that he was dragging Peter down to his level -- many of Peter’s standards had been forced into moderation and change just to keep Gabriel there at all, let alone in a relational sense. That had been….tough. A lot of work - but Peter and Gabriel had ignored it, quite happily so. Surely he had the balls to tell Peter what was best for him.
~And big boys don’t cry.~
He wasted the time that was supposed to be spent writing a note of…explanation, of goodbye. The time that was supposed to be his get-away and his escape to a life of unshared danger and lonely pain. Hours passed; he couldn’t move. Mental gears had locked up in unbearable tension that sought an outlet.
His tears started slowly in counterpoint to his racing thoughts. His desires, his needs were conflicting with Peter’s true needs, the ones the simple medic couldn’t see - the big picture. Gabriel could never fit into Peter’s world and Gabriel’s world would kill Peter.
He couldn’t see through the hot moisture in his eyes and soon after he couldn’t breathe through his nose. After a long time he gave up trying to hold his head up and rested it on his arms, folding over the table. He choked on his sobs, barely aware that his tears and snot were leaving a rather more disgusting, emotional note on the paper. He couldn’t think and prayed not to feel, but once he’d started he couldn’t stop.
Everything was painful, stifling: his throat hurt, his head was swollen and his chest was icy and eventually he was hiccupping to breathe, shoulders shuddering violently as he tried to curl around the table’s edge in acute misery and loss. All the while the sane part of his brain screamed ‘Stop! Write something and get out!’ hoping to be heard over the wretched state of his despair.
~Don’t cry. ~
Oh no.
He’d woken Peter up. He heard the shuffling steps, the scuff as Peter stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, seeing him a mess with the duffle, the runny paper and the gold socks. Shit, stop crying…shit, shit, shit, what to do? Get out, no, explain, no…explain then get out…push him back….he needs to…back away, keep him away…stay away. Gabriel didn’t look up, didn’t want to show his face.
“Gabriel…what are you doing?” Peter asked slowly, gently yet sadly, the implicit trust rooted deep in his voice.
Gabriel was struck dumb with every flavor of fear. What do I say to that?
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
TBC?