(no subject)
Title: Clothes Blood Red.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Sort of angst, mostly morally grey (is this a genre? It should be.)
Pairings: Peter/Claire, Claire/West-ish (you'll see).
Warnings: Slight spoilers for both seasons, dark themes, swearing, incest (obviously).
Summary: Claire doesn't care about her big white wedding. In fact, she cares about very little these days. FYGish universe.
Notes: Written for pairechallenge.
Claire slides the bowie knife under her garter belt and smooths down the front of the full white skirt.
White, what a joke. She's the last person on earth who should wear the colour, but the dress was pretty and she's long since given up trying not to be shallow.
She had considered wearing red, for the sake of irony.
There's a mousy knock at the door, and her mother pokes her head in.
“West is waiting,” she says. “Ready?”
Claire tucks one dark curl behind her ear and nods.
*
They wait outside. A bride should always be late, give her man one last moment of terror. Claire knows, however, that her future husband has no such fear. He's the smuggest man on the planet and he knows that she'll marry him even if it kills her.
Which it probably will.
The doors open, and The Wind Beneath My Wings begins to play. Meredith's already weeping, her mascara running down her face in a particularly attractive manner. Claire sees Nathan grimacing, and she shares the sentiment. He steps over to her, glancing at Noah first, who stands in the back like a disapproving morally grey cloud.
“I'm sorry Pete isn't here,” Nathan says quietly. “I don't know what's gotten into him lately.”
She shrugs. “Doesn't matter.”
“It does. He's family, he should have sucked up whatever problems he has and turned up.” His voice takes on that hard edge saved only for the littlest Petrelli.
“I really don't care,” she says, maybe a little too vehemently. He frowns at her, but then the music gets louder and Noah's walking her to her fate. To all of their fates.
*
The honeymoon suite is the best money can buy, but just like with the dress and the cake and throwing the bouquet, she doesn't care. At least now she can stop pretending otherwise.
“I hate your hair that colour,” he says, pulling off his shoes.
“Well, I hate your face.” She starts working at the hooks of her bodice. He leans over and rips it clean off.
“I can't pretend any more,” he growls, and she smiles, pulling him in roughly for a kiss. She tastes blood filling her mouth when he rips her lip open and she sinks her fingernails into his back in retaliation. When he comes up for air, he grins crookedly. She traces a finger tenderly across his scar, strangely contrasted with his blood on her hands.
“There's my fucked up pretty boy,” she says like a mother to a toddler. His eyes still flutter shut at her light touches, he's still the same gentle guy even after everything they've done.
This is the only thing Claire cares about: corrupting Peter and letting him corrupt her back.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Sort of angst, mostly morally grey (is this a genre? It should be.)
Pairings: Peter/Claire, Claire/West-ish (you'll see).
Warnings: Slight spoilers for both seasons, dark themes, swearing, incest (obviously).
Summary: Claire doesn't care about her big white wedding. In fact, she cares about very little these days. FYGish universe.
Notes: Written for pairechallenge.
Claire slides the bowie knife under her garter belt and smooths down the front of the full white skirt.
White, what a joke. She's the last person on earth who should wear the colour, but the dress was pretty and she's long since given up trying not to be shallow.
She had considered wearing red, for the sake of irony.
There's a mousy knock at the door, and her mother pokes her head in.
“West is waiting,” she says. “Ready?”
Claire tucks one dark curl behind her ear and nods.
*
They wait outside. A bride should always be late, give her man one last moment of terror. Claire knows, however, that her future husband has no such fear. He's the smuggest man on the planet and he knows that she'll marry him even if it kills her.
Which it probably will.
The doors open, and The Wind Beneath My Wings begins to play. Meredith's already weeping, her mascara running down her face in a particularly attractive manner. Claire sees Nathan grimacing, and she shares the sentiment. He steps over to her, glancing at Noah first, who stands in the back like a disapproving morally grey cloud.
“I'm sorry Pete isn't here,” Nathan says quietly. “I don't know what's gotten into him lately.”
She shrugs. “Doesn't matter.”
“It does. He's family, he should have sucked up whatever problems he has and turned up.” His voice takes on that hard edge saved only for the littlest Petrelli.
“I really don't care,” she says, maybe a little too vehemently. He frowns at her, but then the music gets louder and Noah's walking her to her fate. To all of their fates.
*
The honeymoon suite is the best money can buy, but just like with the dress and the cake and throwing the bouquet, she doesn't care. At least now she can stop pretending otherwise.
“I hate your hair that colour,” he says, pulling off his shoes.
“Well, I hate your face.” She starts working at the hooks of her bodice. He leans over and rips it clean off.
“I can't pretend any more,” he growls, and she smiles, pulling him in roughly for a kiss. She tastes blood filling her mouth when he rips her lip open and she sinks her fingernails into his back in retaliation. When he comes up for air, he grins crookedly. She traces a finger tenderly across his scar, strangely contrasted with his blood on her hands.
“There's my fucked up pretty boy,” she says like a mother to a toddler. His eyes still flutter shut at her light touches, he's still the same gentle guy even after everything they've done.
This is the only thing Claire cares about: corrupting Peter and letting him corrupt her back.