ficmix: I'll Be Your Winter Coat
Medium: Television.
Fandom:Heroes.
Subject: Peter/Claire.
Title: I'll Be Your Winter Coat.
Warnings: Incest.
Notes: Lately, I've been writing Peter as obsessive and/or insane, and I thought it was time for a break from that. I tried to go for a more romantic, non-linear feel than I normally go for - hopefully I did okay (and yes, I know at least a couple of these songs have been used in P/C fanmixes before, but they were too perfect to pass up!). Enjoy!
Peter spins elaborate tales for her, of how the future's going to be, all bright lights and love. He doesn't want her to remember how she'll always be standing still while everyone else is moving forever forwards, so he pulls her along after him, capturing her in his momentum.
He's so busy trying to make her happy, he doesn't realise she is already, with her hand in his.
We'll cut our bodies free
From the tethers of this scene
Start a brand new colony
Where everything will change
We'll give ourselves new names
Brand New Colony - The Postal Service.
*
He doesn't kiss her, at first. He hugs her when she's excited about something, holds her when she cries, lets her fall asleep beside him under his thick quilt on winter nights, but he doesn't kiss her.
It puzzles her; they've known each other for fifteen years, watched the world spin and change and age, and she knows there's something more here. Knows that he doesn't date and that she hasn't got married or had children for a reason. She's doesn't have even a moment of regret over it, she always said she'd get married for love, and she has the time, but she wonders: is there something she's missing?
“Peter?” she asks, as they walk hand in hand through a crowd of Christmas shoppers (already? It seems like only yesterday she was saving all her pocket money up to buy her parents silly little token presents).
“Mm?” he replies, rubbing circles on her knuckles with his thumb.
“Why don't you ever kiss me? I know you want to.”
He flushes. “Claire, your father, fathers, would-” he begins to argue, holding her hand tighter.
“That's not gonna matter in a hundred years, in seventy,” she interrupts. “Do we really have to wait that long?”
He doesn't reply, just takes a deep breath and looks up at the Christmas lights, the gold and white and red reflected in his eyes.
“Truth is,” he says finally, still gazing up at the huge snowflake decorations strung up along the street. “If I started, I might never stop.”
She moves to stand in front of him, slips her arms around his middle and rests her head against his chest. “I might not want you to.”
I'm kissing you, oh.
Touch me deep, pure and true,
Gift to me forever
Kissing You - Des'ree
*
Of all the powers he's collected over the years, it's Isaac's that fascinates him the most. Though the canvas shows him a million futures, it is itself a throwback to the past, a time of possibilities that stretched endless into the sky; where the lines of the world were clean and fresh and bright, and invisible string marked the bonds between strangers, gave them purpose.
Those strangers are gone now, some as friends, some as enemies, and some never even knowing of the impact they made just by being alive. Peter tries not to think about that now, tries not to rehash his mistakes and dwell on bitter sweet successes. Tries not to remember that he has the dubious honour of being the last man standing.
So he paints, where his mind only ever shows him what will be, of a world he doesn't know yet but that he's promised to discover, a place where he has but one constant.
He has no brushes, no canvas; he uses his hands and the wall, smearing paint across rough plaster in wide arches and strokes, sweeps of yellow and flecks of blue, green, red (red is bad: pain and world's end, green is calming: the comfort he seeks, blue is the next thing: the time after the red, the better part). It's the same thing over and over again, with subtle variations; among the good and the bad, the far future and what he sees mere hours before they happen.
“It's always you,” he says, staring up at the mural of overlapping images, painted over so many times that he might be the only one who understands the connections.
Claire reaches for his hand, delicate fingers interlocking with his paint covered ones, tugging him gently down to her tangle of sheets on the floor. “Of course,” she says, again and again.
Of course she'll always be there, his green and blue.
Fingers trace your every outline
Paint a picture with my hands
Back and forth we sway like branches in a storm
Change the weather still together when it end.
Sunday Morning - Maroon 5
*
In her head, Claire is a hundred years old - maybe more now, she can't really remember. She's lived on three different continents, gained twelve different degrees, learned to drive, dance, hot wire cars, rock climb, hike up mountains, deep sea dive, build a house- and that's just the tip of the iceberg.
She's Claire and she's not Claire. She's not Claire in name, or in appearance - with her new short dark hair - and she's no longer a cheerleader in need of saving, but in his eyes she knows she hasn't changed at all, doesn't have hard edges, isn't cynical and sometimes bitter.
Peter reaches out in his sleep, hands fluttering along her body before resting on the dip of her waist. He presses his face into the crook of her neck, sighing happily and tugging her closer against him, and it's times like these that she believes in the hand of a higher being, because how else could she have found the person that fits into all her missing pieces?
The sacred simplicity
Of you at my side.
Eric's Song - Vienna Teng.
*
Peter Petrelli is a hero. Ever since he can remember, he's defined himself by what he can do for others; standing up to bullies in the playground, giving blood, volunteering for charity, nursing the sick - and he's been defined by how others see him. The dreamer, the kid, the hero.
He's a culmination of everyone he's ever known, and when he's alone, he's adrift. He doesn't know how long exactly he's been an empath, perhaps forever - it certainly feels that way, and it has its downsides as well as its upsides. He can better understand what others are feeling, yes, but it doesn't help him understand himself, and sometimes he gets so caught up in others' emotions that he can't distinguish them from his own. And he can sense disappointment, hope, fear, need, and he has to be better for all these people who call out to him.
It's a lot to ask; more than he can take, sometimes.
“Claire,” he says when he's at breaking point, and she's not an empath or a mind reader, but she knows anyway.
“You don't need to do anything,” she'll say, putting her arms around his shoulders and touching her forehead to his. “You can be scared, Peter.”
And he is scared, and he knows it's coming from him because all he feels from her is a warm glow of trust and love that doesn't demand anything from him other than his presence.
She's his final definition, because with her, he's just Peter.
I love you,
When you don't,
When you don't do anything,
When you're useless,
I love you more.
Don't Do Anything - Sam Phillips.
*
When they're younger (which is, perhaps, the most relative thing in the world now) Claire likes to stand on top of the highest things she can find, throw her arms wide and just be. Wind can whip itself around her body, snatching up her hair and pushing her closer and closer to the edge, and she just laughs, exhilarated by the world and her place in it.
Peter lets her do it because he remembers the feeling, of discovering yourself and your place in the world, and he wants her to have that too.
“I'm going to jump,” she says once she's standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, all smiles and hair.
“Why?” he asks, holding onto the back of her shirt carefully. She shrugs.
“So you'll catch me,” she says. “Like a fallen angel.”
He shakes his head, sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against his chest. “No,” he says, pulling them up into the sky. “I'd never let you fall.”
Angel
Hold onto me
I call, call out to you
"It's paradise"
You take me to.
Angel - Gavin Friday
*
She has a sad smile, he thinks, in front of that display case; a sad smile and frayed edges from a weight too heavy for her small shoulders. He doesn't know her name, but he knows that, feels her soul calling out to his.
I don't win too many popularity contests.
In his mind's eye, he sees her face transformed by laughter, tears, joy, animated in speech and relaxed in sleep. And he knows, somehow, that it's all real - a life mapped out before him.
“Hey,” he says. “It gets better!”
I saw it all happening in one grand epic sweep, from that
First sight that we wouldn't
Get to sleep for a week
And generations would follow
The course that we'd charted
From that sofa across,
I couldn't
Wait to get started.
First Sight - These United States.
all seven tracks & xml file zipped
Icons:
Fandom:Heroes.
Subject: Peter/Claire.
Title: I'll Be Your Winter Coat.
Warnings: Incest.
Notes: Lately, I've been writing Peter as obsessive and/or insane, and I thought it was time for a break from that. I tried to go for a more romantic, non-linear feel than I normally go for - hopefully I did okay (and yes, I know at least a couple of these songs have been used in P/C fanmixes before, but they were too perfect to pass up!). Enjoy!
Peter spins elaborate tales for her, of how the future's going to be, all bright lights and love. He doesn't want her to remember how she'll always be standing still while everyone else is moving forever forwards, so he pulls her along after him, capturing her in his momentum.
He's so busy trying to make her happy, he doesn't realise she is already, with her hand in his.
We'll cut our bodies free
From the tethers of this scene
Start a brand new colony
Where everything will change
We'll give ourselves new names
Brand New Colony - The Postal Service.
*
He doesn't kiss her, at first. He hugs her when she's excited about something, holds her when she cries, lets her fall asleep beside him under his thick quilt on winter nights, but he doesn't kiss her.
It puzzles her; they've known each other for fifteen years, watched the world spin and change and age, and she knows there's something more here. Knows that he doesn't date and that she hasn't got married or had children for a reason. She's doesn't have even a moment of regret over it, she always said she'd get married for love, and she has the time, but she wonders: is there something she's missing?
“Peter?” she asks, as they walk hand in hand through a crowd of Christmas shoppers (already? It seems like only yesterday she was saving all her pocket money up to buy her parents silly little token presents).
“Mm?” he replies, rubbing circles on her knuckles with his thumb.
“Why don't you ever kiss me? I know you want to.”
He flushes. “Claire, your father, fathers, would-” he begins to argue, holding her hand tighter.
“That's not gonna matter in a hundred years, in seventy,” she interrupts. “Do we really have to wait that long?”
He doesn't reply, just takes a deep breath and looks up at the Christmas lights, the gold and white and red reflected in his eyes.
“Truth is,” he says finally, still gazing up at the huge snowflake decorations strung up along the street. “If I started, I might never stop.”
She moves to stand in front of him, slips her arms around his middle and rests her head against his chest. “I might not want you to.”
I'm kissing you, oh.
Touch me deep, pure and true,
Gift to me forever
Kissing You - Des'ree
*
Of all the powers he's collected over the years, it's Isaac's that fascinates him the most. Though the canvas shows him a million futures, it is itself a throwback to the past, a time of possibilities that stretched endless into the sky; where the lines of the world were clean and fresh and bright, and invisible string marked the bonds between strangers, gave them purpose.
Those strangers are gone now, some as friends, some as enemies, and some never even knowing of the impact they made just by being alive. Peter tries not to think about that now, tries not to rehash his mistakes and dwell on bitter sweet successes. Tries not to remember that he has the dubious honour of being the last man standing.
So he paints, where his mind only ever shows him what will be, of a world he doesn't know yet but that he's promised to discover, a place where he has but one constant.
He has no brushes, no canvas; he uses his hands and the wall, smearing paint across rough plaster in wide arches and strokes, sweeps of yellow and flecks of blue, green, red (red is bad: pain and world's end, green is calming: the comfort he seeks, blue is the next thing: the time after the red, the better part). It's the same thing over and over again, with subtle variations; among the good and the bad, the far future and what he sees mere hours before they happen.
“It's always you,” he says, staring up at the mural of overlapping images, painted over so many times that he might be the only one who understands the connections.
Claire reaches for his hand, delicate fingers interlocking with his paint covered ones, tugging him gently down to her tangle of sheets on the floor. “Of course,” she says, again and again.
Of course she'll always be there, his green and blue.
Fingers trace your every outline
Paint a picture with my hands
Back and forth we sway like branches in a storm
Change the weather still together when it end.
Sunday Morning - Maroon 5
*
In her head, Claire is a hundred years old - maybe more now, she can't really remember. She's lived on three different continents, gained twelve different degrees, learned to drive, dance, hot wire cars, rock climb, hike up mountains, deep sea dive, build a house- and that's just the tip of the iceberg.
She's Claire and she's not Claire. She's not Claire in name, or in appearance - with her new short dark hair - and she's no longer a cheerleader in need of saving, but in his eyes she knows she hasn't changed at all, doesn't have hard edges, isn't cynical and sometimes bitter.
Peter reaches out in his sleep, hands fluttering along her body before resting on the dip of her waist. He presses his face into the crook of her neck, sighing happily and tugging her closer against him, and it's times like these that she believes in the hand of a higher being, because how else could she have found the person that fits into all her missing pieces?
The sacred simplicity
Of you at my side.
Eric's Song - Vienna Teng.
*
Peter Petrelli is a hero. Ever since he can remember, he's defined himself by what he can do for others; standing up to bullies in the playground, giving blood, volunteering for charity, nursing the sick - and he's been defined by how others see him. The dreamer, the kid, the hero.
He's a culmination of everyone he's ever known, and when he's alone, he's adrift. He doesn't know how long exactly he's been an empath, perhaps forever - it certainly feels that way, and it has its downsides as well as its upsides. He can better understand what others are feeling, yes, but it doesn't help him understand himself, and sometimes he gets so caught up in others' emotions that he can't distinguish them from his own. And he can sense disappointment, hope, fear, need, and he has to be better for all these people who call out to him.
It's a lot to ask; more than he can take, sometimes.
“Claire,” he says when he's at breaking point, and she's not an empath or a mind reader, but she knows anyway.
“You don't need to do anything,” she'll say, putting her arms around his shoulders and touching her forehead to his. “You can be scared, Peter.”
And he is scared, and he knows it's coming from him because all he feels from her is a warm glow of trust and love that doesn't demand anything from him other than his presence.
She's his final definition, because with her, he's just Peter.
I love you,
When you don't,
When you don't do anything,
When you're useless,
I love you more.
Don't Do Anything - Sam Phillips.
*
When they're younger (which is, perhaps, the most relative thing in the world now) Claire likes to stand on top of the highest things she can find, throw her arms wide and just be. Wind can whip itself around her body, snatching up her hair and pushing her closer and closer to the edge, and she just laughs, exhilarated by the world and her place in it.
Peter lets her do it because he remembers the feeling, of discovering yourself and your place in the world, and he wants her to have that too.
“I'm going to jump,” she says once she's standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, all smiles and hair.
“Why?” he asks, holding onto the back of her shirt carefully. She shrugs.
“So you'll catch me,” she says. “Like a fallen angel.”
He shakes his head, sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against his chest. “No,” he says, pulling them up into the sky. “I'd never let you fall.”
Angel
Hold onto me
I call, call out to you
"It's paradise"
You take me to.
Angel - Gavin Friday
*
She has a sad smile, he thinks, in front of that display case; a sad smile and frayed edges from a weight too heavy for her small shoulders. He doesn't know her name, but he knows that, feels her soul calling out to his.
I don't win too many popularity contests.
In his mind's eye, he sees her face transformed by laughter, tears, joy, animated in speech and relaxed in sleep. And he knows, somehow, that it's all real - a life mapped out before him.
“Hey,” he says. “It gets better!”
I saw it all happening in one grand epic sweep, from that
First sight that we wouldn't
Get to sleep for a week
And generations would follow
The course that we'd charted
From that sofa across,
I couldn't
Wait to get started.
First Sight - These United States.
all seven tracks & xml file zipped
Icons:
