Be Near Me (7)
Title: Be Near Me (7)
Pairing: Peter/Claire, implied Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Length: about 3500 words
Spoilers: Through 1-11: Fallout
Summary: Peter and Claire take a moment to share some personal history, and as he goes in search of the next name on his list, Peter realizes that, despite his best efforts, he is in even worse danger than he thought. Smut, humor, and angst in equal measure. PLEASE READ DISCLAIMER.
Be Near Me (7): The Flight
Protect me from what I want. -- Placebo, "Protege-moi"
Waiting for the flight in the airport had been already been two of the most paranoid hours of Peter's life, and when it was announced that the flight was going to be another forty-five minutes late, he stood up and threw his arms in the air and paced around so elaborately that Claire took him by the shoulder and herded him up the concourse. "Please chill out," she murmured to him. "Everybody's looking at you. It's just a plane flight. Let's go get some coffee or something."
"I don't need any more coffee," Peter replied, but in a quiet tone close to her head. "I've had too much already, obviously... Aw, who am I kidding?" He kept walking in step with her, speaking in that same private tone of voice. "I'm gonna explode--"
"What?"
"--If I don't get... relieve some tension." Claire stopped, and gave him a quizzical look, then glanced down his front. Peter paused too, grimacing, shrugging his messenger bag more securely against his lower midsection. He could feel his spare clothes and shoes poking into his erection, and gave her a tight, humorless smile.
Her returning smile was indulgent, flattered, wicked, challenging. "Oh yeah?" she said casually. "What are you gonna do?"
"Well, isn't it obvious?"
"Can I watch?" she began, then quickly added, "Can I help?"
"Claire." Peter's eyes darted along the concourse. "How do you figure you're gonna do that?"
"I won't... y'know... come," she replied. "I promise. Trust me; girls don't really have the same problem. I want to help."
You want to take advantage of me, you mean, Peter thought. Wait a minute... I don't have a problem with that. "But how can we... find a place to do that here?"
She rolled her eyes. "Peter Petrelli," she said, "I know this airport. I may have almost never flown out of here, but I've spent a lot of time in here waiting. My mom travels almost as much as my dad does. And sometimes I get bored."
She led him to an escalator that rose to a higher level, above the concourse, that he had only seen airline personnel walking along. A quick jaunt down the hall brought them to an unmarked door, which Claire quickly opened and then dragged Peter inside, locking the door behind them and switching on a light. "It's never locked. This is a nursing room for flight attendants," she explained. "You know, if somebody has to pump breast milk or something."
"How, uh, appropriate," Peter murmured, looking around at the tiny room, with minimal but soothing decor, including a small upholstered two-seat sofa with a footstool. "Doesn't somebody have a key?"
"Nobody uses this room. They've got a better lounge closer to the gate. Sometimes, all you gotta do is talk to the janitorial staff. Look." Claire grabbed a box of tissues from the small shelf along the wall, and showed it to him. "See that red dot on the top tissue? I put that there six months ago. Nobody's used this since then."
Peter grinned. "You're really good at this espionage stuff!"
"When I was a little kid, I went on this spy kick, and read all these books about female spies and the KGB and stuff. Mata Hari and Tokyo Rose." She set down her big bag, and took off her denim jacket, exposing her lithe torso in a striped pale-yellow T-shirt that looked to Peter to be almost as translucent as the tissues; the white scalloped edges of her bra were clearly visible under it. But if he thought about it, he felt like he could see her naked breasts clearly, too. He called it "sex-ray vision", and it wasn't so much of a superpower; pretty much every man had it to some extent or other. "So here I am, ready to help you get rid of some of your tension in the next thirty minutes. What would you suggest?"
"I just want to..." Peter set down his bag by the door, and sank down on the footstool. Claire gave him a big smile, and he took a deep breath, centering himself. "Take your top off," he said. "Just let me look at you."
The thin T-shirt came off, and Peter frowned to himself at the beauty of the sight. Not scallops; eyelet lace. Pretty and virginal; made him want it off her. Claire hooked her thumb under the shoulder strap. "This too?" she asked.
"That too," said Peter. His voice sounded more like himself, less like that shaky, intimidated youngster he'd been for the last day. He didn't like that; that wasn't him. Especially not when it came to girls.
Smoothly, Claire reached back and unhooked the bra, then slid it off, watching him, unashamed but curious. Peter stood up and went to her, stroking his hand over her shoulder, down over one breast, pausing at the nipple, and continuing down her defined, muscular belly. He could look at her for hours. "Your skin is so perfect," he murmured. "The other girls must hate you."
Claire gave a slight nod, lowering her cinnamon lashes. "Never a scar, never a zit," she responded. "Yeah. It's--"
"Alienating."
A faint laugh. "Yeah."
Peter took his hand back over the other breast, the other shoulder, then sat down again and unzipped his pants. "I'm trying not to let you alienate me. I'm sorry I'm being weird. I'm just not familiar with the situation..."
Claire kissed him into silence. "Me neither." She knelt before him and gazed up at him with trust and acceptance in her dry-grass green eyes. "Tell me about your brother," she said, running her hand lightly over his exposed cock; his skin lit up all over in a flurry of electric shivers. "Talk to me about what it's like to do that with him."
"Do what?" Peter mumbled dazedly, then snapped back to attention when he felt her warm breath against the head of his cock. "Oh god... that," he said. "Oh, god, yeah, I did that."
"Did what?" Claire whispered. "You can tell me." She just lay her lips against him; not quite a kiss, as she didn't draw back, just pressed her lips against him, her hand idly stroking against the shaft on the other side. Peter's toes curled inside his sneakers.
"I sucked his cock," he breathed, looking instead at the ceiling. "It was good. He even fucked my mouth a little, almost like it was for old time's sake. It was so good, it's always so good. I used to lie in bed awake at night thinking about it. I was... so shocked; I didn't think it would be like that, so good like that. I wanted someone to fuck my mouth for a long time after that; it just seemed like the most... amazing thing in the world..." Peter had a hard time clinging to the thread of his story, with the girl tentatively fellating him, but not really knowing how to do it. Somehow, her incompetence was even more erotic than expertise; it just reinforced how young she was, how untried. He could teach her so much. "And I did a bunch of other stuff before I ever had my mouth fucked again and forgot all about it... but oh, god, it's..."
"Go on," she whispered. "Tell me."
"It's..." Peter abruptly lunged for the tissue box at the end of the reach of his arm, the movement of his abdomen pushing his cock deep inside her mouth. She moved back off him, coughing, her hand moving to her mouth, her throat, and Peter wanted to apologize, but found that his entire body was now focused on orgasm, striking him mute but for ecstatic, stuttering hisses. It was like he hadn't come for days; he had to grab for more tissues before his vision cleared and he returned to his body.
Claire was staring, massaging her throat. "Wow. Is, um, that what it's like?"
"Not ideally, no," Peter said, laughing faintly, half blissed, half embarrassed.. "That was an accident. I didn't get you, did I? I'm sorry; did I hurt you?"
"No," she said with a smile. "No. I can kinda see what you were talking about."
"It's kind of--yeah. It's just... wrong. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have."
"You're welcome," she grinned. "C'mon, let's go. We've even got time to get a cup of coffee."
On the flight itself, Peter drew in his sketchbook so feverishly that he never noticed the time passing. He wasn't in a vision state--he knew the feeling of that now--but he felt physically compelled to get out his sketchbook and #1 pencil, and it felt almost as achingly good to draw as it did to have sex. He only returned to himself when Claire shook his sleeve and told him that the plane was landing. Together, they perused his recent sketches: two seated stick figures, back to back; a pair of glasses with one broken lens; an amazingly detailed watch with exposed gears and wheels, one of the gears, outside the watch, with one broken cog.
And a face. Not drawn with great skill, but completely recognizable, almost a successful caricature--matted hair like twigs, heavy swooping black eyebrows, full mouth, staring eyes as keen and precise as lasers.
"Jesus," said Claire, recoiling even from the drawing. "What'd you draw him for?"
"I don't know," said Peter numbly, feeling the lie spread out between them like a stain. The funny thing was, he felt a weird pang of guilt, looking not at the portrait of Sylar, but at the picture of the watch, as though he was viewing something private, like reading someone else's diary.
"Well," said the girl, now apprehensive, "at least as long as we stick together, you won't get hurt. Oh, by the way? If there's anything that sticks me in the brain? If you're there, could you pull it out, please?"
"What? Yeah, sure."
"Seriously, Peter," she said, watching him stand up into the airplane aisle, "I gotta tell you some things."
Between Newark and the tunnels, Claire explained the oddities and limitations of her healing power to Peter, and Peter listened intently; but once they came out into Manhattan proper, Claire fell silent, staring out the window of the service car at the lights and traffic. "I'm in New York," she breathed reverently after a moment. "I can't believe it."
"It's just a city," Peter said, trying to sound casual. "I mean, it's just THE city. The only one really. The other ones are just the Disneyland miniatures." He was warming up to his usual Manhattan-centric rant, but his cell phone chirped for an incoming message.
New Message from ISAAC MENDEZ
Did you see Hiro?
Peter sent back He told me to get back here.
Isaac returned You were gone? Explains lots. Hiro is here btw, said he tried to contact you, couldn't. Call please.
"Hiro's there?" Peter said aloud.
Claire raised her eyebrows. "Hiro?"
"Hiro Nakamura," Peter explained. "That Japanese guy that called you on your disposable? Yeah... he, uh... he can bend time and space." Peter heaved a deep sigh, not noticing Claire staring wide-eyed at him. "He visits me from the future. A lot these days. It's really unsettling. He's sort of ... nudging me into position. Between he and Isaac and your dad... sometimes I wonder how much free will I even have."
"He's a time traveller?"
"Yeah," said Peter. "And some bad shit is going to go down, apparently. Nothing I'm doing seems to be stopping that from happening. I just can't fit all the pieces together to know what it is exactly that I'm supposed to do. All I know is that I have to be the one to save everybody. Hiro told me himself--'Be the one we need.' I don't even know what that means. According to your dad, I'm the only one who can take down Sylar; I guess Sylar is going to try to end the world. Or something."
Claire shuddered. "Ugh, I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"OK... I have to call Isaac. We're almost there; we should be able to grab a bite to eat downstairs... there's a little vegan Middle Eastern deli down there..."
Isaac sounded agitated. "Peter."
"Isaac, what's going on."
"Where did you go?"
"I can't talk about it right now," Peter said, glancing at Claire. "Maybe you should come over or something, actually."
"Come over...? To your place? Uh, yeah, I guess I could do that. Hiro and Ando are here--you want them to come too?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we've gotta talk. There's some stuff we gotta figure out; I have to talk to Hiro. By the way, what's he look like?"
Isaac huffed slightly. "Like a... Japanese dude," isaac said, then in a quieter, close voice (hand over the phone), "like a nerd, man. Glasses, blue polo shirt, unironic bedhead. Sorry, Ando."
Faintly, from the background, "No problem. It is true."
"OK," said Peter. He read Isaac his address. "How you doing?"
"To be honest," said Isaac, still quiet, "I'm jonesing. I miss the needle. The needle's my girlfriend."
"Simone's your girlfriend."
"Simone's your girlfriend. I thought we established this."
"She's my beloved," Peter sighed, "it's not the same thing. What do you think, thirty minutes?"
"Make it forty-five--Oh wait. Hiro wants to speak to you." There was silence on the line for a moment, then rapid, excited breaths punctuated with a slowly, painstakingly pronounced, "He-llo, this is Hiro Nakamura."
"Hiro," replied Peter, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. He sounded like such a spunky young goof; what was going to happen to forge him into the unsmiling black iron weapon that he had met on the subway? "This is Peter Petrelli."
"Oh, Peter Petrelli. I am so glad to speak with you. Will I see you later?"
"Yes, Hiro, you'll see me later."
"Good. I am happy."
"I am happy too," said Peter, smiling so much his face hurt. "I gotta go. I'll see you soon. Goodbye."
"Bye-bye! Peter!"
Peter put the phone away and wiped his eyes. "God," he said, shaking all over suddenly, "it's so fucked. Oh, God, I have to stop it." He couldn't give in to the wave of angst, though; the car had arrived outside his building at last. He signed the credit card slip and trudged inside, heading up the familiar stairs because the elevator was, as usual, broken. Claire followed silently along behind him.
He sat on the couch and put his face in his hands.
"Your apartment is really cool," Claire's voice broke into his haze of misery.
He straightened up and took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, "it's pretty nice. I wish I could afford it. It's my mom's Christmas present to me every year; she pays my rent. It's rent-controlled, at least, so it's not that crazy... but all my salary goes towards paying off my loans. All my clothes, my mom bought for me... Jesus. You're probably more self-sufficient than me."
"Peter, don't do this to yourself."
"I'm not doing to myself; destiny's doing it to me," he protested. "OK, I am doing this to myself. This attitude is not helping. But my God, I'm fuckin' scared. If you ever see Hiro from the future--well, you'll see him in the future, I guess. It's just--do you ever just want your old life back?"
"Every minute," said Claire, steady-eyed, "of every day. You're not doing this alone, so stop telling yourself that you are. You're not special."
"I am special, though, Claire," said Peter. "I am special. Even--compared to the rest of you. I am special."
Claire arched her eyebrows. "OK," she said, her voice like a hand held up between them.
"Fuck. No. I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from." Peter took out his phone again. "I'm gonna make another call."
"To your therapist, I hope," she said, softening it with a quick hug and a kiss on the ear.
Peter smirked at her, then retreated to the bedroom and called Mohinder Suresh. He didn't expect that the phone would be answered, but the response was almost immediate. "Hello?"
"Mohinder? It's Peter Petrelli."
"Peter. Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. How's your research?"
"Incredible," Mohinder said, and Peter was surprised at his enthusiasm. "I've discovered so much--there are so many people in the world who have taken that next step. I wonder if they are even aware of it."
"Have you found out anything new about... Sylar?"
"Sylar. Birth name, Gabriel Gray. Plastic sheeting on his furniture. Or at least he had before. He hasn't returned to his former residence."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure? Should I check?" Mohinder seemed surprised.
"I think you should have surveillance on that place all the time," Peter said. "You never know when he might want to come back and revisit memories, or whatever."
"Oddly enough," Mohinder said, "a couple of FBI officers were just here today, saying the same thing."
"Tell me about them," said Peter, suddenly tingling with excitement.
"Uh... a man and a woman... the woman, blonde, with a rather sharp tongue. The man, tallish, stoutish, had a bad headache, I'm guessing, the whole time; he kept on grimacing and taking pills. Called... Hanson and Parkman. They are on Sylar's case. Agent Hanson, the woman, said that the empty unit was a dead end, and that they'll return tomorrow to get a closer look at my notes."
"Parkman," Peter breathed. "Matt Parkman. Did they give you any way to contact them?"
"Yes," said Mohinder, and read off three numbers, one for each and one for the local department.
"I don't know if you've done the right thing or not, Mohinder," said Peter. "Maybe the FBI doesn't... need to know about people with special abilities."
"They're trying to save lives," Mohinder said, a little taken aback. "They're trying to stop Sylar--don't you find that to be a worthy goal?"
"Yeah," said Peter, "it's what I'm doing."
He rang off, then dialed the number for Parkman before he had a chance to lose his nerve. It rang seven times, eight times; Peter got up and looked at himself in the mirror. Unshaven, a little sunburnt on the cheeks, huge eyes staring out of a too-thin face. When the other line picked up, it took him a moment to respond.
"Parkman. Who's this?" The voice was groggy, as if recently awakened.
"This is Peter Petrelli," Peter said. "I have an important message for you."
"Oh, you do? what is it?"
"It's important enough that I don't want to tell you over the phone."
"Oh, c'mon. You think you're being tapped?" said the policeman, then hesitated, thinking it over. "Where do you want to meet?"
"Well, where are you right now?"
"I'm at my hotel. In my room. Catching a nap. My head aches so bad these days--"
"Can I just come there? I just realized that I need someplace to go." Peter glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until Isaac and the others were due to arrive, and there he was, just sitting there, waiting for them to gather around him so he could...
...go catch fire and die.
"He's controlling me," Peter realized. "He's projecting things into my mind. He's--I'm not safe. I've gotta see you right away."
"Fine," said Parkman, obviously rattled and confused. "I'm at the Park Rose, on Third, number 512. When can I expect you?"
"Shortly," said Peter, hanging up. He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed a jar of peanut butter, and under Claire's baffled gaze, began to wolf down spoonfuls of it. He paused for breath, and pointed at her with the spoon. "It's the only thing I've got in here that hasn't gone bad," he explained. "I've gotta go. You stay here, wait for Isaac."
"What? I can't stay here by myself."
"You have to," Peter said. "When those other guys get here, and you being here, I don't think I can take that. I think it would actually kill me. I wasn't thinking when I told Isaac to come here; it wasn't me saying that. I think it would kill me if I were here. You by yourself, I can handle; you, Nathan, and Isaac, a day apart, I can handle. I don't think I can handle you, Isaac, and Hiro, all at the same time." He gave her a sad smile. "I've gotta go meet the next person on my list."
Claire frowned and pouted and shook her head, not looking at him anymore. "Dammit," she said in a small voice. "I know there's nothing you can do about that."
"He's making me do stuff I don't want to do," Peter sighed. "He's showing me that he can make me into whatever he wants. It's fucked. He can't have this much power. I have got to get rid of him; I've got to kill him if it's the last thing I ever do."
"Peter, you are so not making sense."
"People always tell me that," Peter snapped, and tossed the peanut butter jar back into the fridge. "You'll be safe with them. I've got my phone."
"You were supposed to protect me."
"I did what you asked," Peter said. "I went all that way to get you away from your dad. Now you're here." He shook his head. "I can't stop. Every time I turn around, there's more at stake. He's manipulating my mind. And I can't take him the way I am now. For some reason. I need to gain more before I can even have you. Please. You'll be all right with them. Hiro and Ando are just the sweetest guys, and Isaac--well, um, he's OK. Here's my friend Simone's number, just in case. If anything weird happens, call her. But call me first. But I might not be able to help. I gotta go."
"So this is what it's like to be a superhero's girlfriend," Claire mused. "I don't think I like it."
"If this is what it's like to be a superhero, I don't like it either," said Peter, and shut the door.
...TO BE CONTINUED...
previous:: next
Pairing: Peter/Claire, implied Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Length: about 3500 words
Spoilers: Through 1-11: Fallout
Summary: Peter and Claire take a moment to share some personal history, and as he goes in search of the next name on his list, Peter realizes that, despite his best efforts, he is in even worse danger than he thought. Smut, humor, and angst in equal measure. PLEASE READ DISCLAIMER.
Be Near Me (7): The Flight
Protect me from what I want. -- Placebo, "Protege-moi"
Waiting for the flight in the airport had been already been two of the most paranoid hours of Peter's life, and when it was announced that the flight was going to be another forty-five minutes late, he stood up and threw his arms in the air and paced around so elaborately that Claire took him by the shoulder and herded him up the concourse. "Please chill out," she murmured to him. "Everybody's looking at you. It's just a plane flight. Let's go get some coffee or something."
"I don't need any more coffee," Peter replied, but in a quiet tone close to her head. "I've had too much already, obviously... Aw, who am I kidding?" He kept walking in step with her, speaking in that same private tone of voice. "I'm gonna explode--"
"What?"
"--If I don't get... relieve some tension." Claire stopped, and gave him a quizzical look, then glanced down his front. Peter paused too, grimacing, shrugging his messenger bag more securely against his lower midsection. He could feel his spare clothes and shoes poking into his erection, and gave her a tight, humorless smile.
Her returning smile was indulgent, flattered, wicked, challenging. "Oh yeah?" she said casually. "What are you gonna do?"
"Well, isn't it obvious?"
"Can I watch?" she began, then quickly added, "Can I help?"
"Claire." Peter's eyes darted along the concourse. "How do you figure you're gonna do that?"
"I won't... y'know... come," she replied. "I promise. Trust me; girls don't really have the same problem. I want to help."
You want to take advantage of me, you mean, Peter thought. Wait a minute... I don't have a problem with that. "But how can we... find a place to do that here?"
She rolled her eyes. "Peter Petrelli," she said, "I know this airport. I may have almost never flown out of here, but I've spent a lot of time in here waiting. My mom travels almost as much as my dad does. And sometimes I get bored."
She led him to an escalator that rose to a higher level, above the concourse, that he had only seen airline personnel walking along. A quick jaunt down the hall brought them to an unmarked door, which Claire quickly opened and then dragged Peter inside, locking the door behind them and switching on a light. "It's never locked. This is a nursing room for flight attendants," she explained. "You know, if somebody has to pump breast milk or something."
"How, uh, appropriate," Peter murmured, looking around at the tiny room, with minimal but soothing decor, including a small upholstered two-seat sofa with a footstool. "Doesn't somebody have a key?"
"Nobody uses this room. They've got a better lounge closer to the gate. Sometimes, all you gotta do is talk to the janitorial staff. Look." Claire grabbed a box of tissues from the small shelf along the wall, and showed it to him. "See that red dot on the top tissue? I put that there six months ago. Nobody's used this since then."
Peter grinned. "You're really good at this espionage stuff!"
"When I was a little kid, I went on this spy kick, and read all these books about female spies and the KGB and stuff. Mata Hari and Tokyo Rose." She set down her big bag, and took off her denim jacket, exposing her lithe torso in a striped pale-yellow T-shirt that looked to Peter to be almost as translucent as the tissues; the white scalloped edges of her bra were clearly visible under it. But if he thought about it, he felt like he could see her naked breasts clearly, too. He called it "sex-ray vision", and it wasn't so much of a superpower; pretty much every man had it to some extent or other. "So here I am, ready to help you get rid of some of your tension in the next thirty minutes. What would you suggest?"
"I just want to..." Peter set down his bag by the door, and sank down on the footstool. Claire gave him a big smile, and he took a deep breath, centering himself. "Take your top off," he said. "Just let me look at you."
The thin T-shirt came off, and Peter frowned to himself at the beauty of the sight. Not scallops; eyelet lace. Pretty and virginal; made him want it off her. Claire hooked her thumb under the shoulder strap. "This too?" she asked.
"That too," said Peter. His voice sounded more like himself, less like that shaky, intimidated youngster he'd been for the last day. He didn't like that; that wasn't him. Especially not when it came to girls.
Smoothly, Claire reached back and unhooked the bra, then slid it off, watching him, unashamed but curious. Peter stood up and went to her, stroking his hand over her shoulder, down over one breast, pausing at the nipple, and continuing down her defined, muscular belly. He could look at her for hours. "Your skin is so perfect," he murmured. "The other girls must hate you."
Claire gave a slight nod, lowering her cinnamon lashes. "Never a scar, never a zit," she responded. "Yeah. It's--"
"Alienating."
A faint laugh. "Yeah."
Peter took his hand back over the other breast, the other shoulder, then sat down again and unzipped his pants. "I'm trying not to let you alienate me. I'm sorry I'm being weird. I'm just not familiar with the situation..."
Claire kissed him into silence. "Me neither." She knelt before him and gazed up at him with trust and acceptance in her dry-grass green eyes. "Tell me about your brother," she said, running her hand lightly over his exposed cock; his skin lit up all over in a flurry of electric shivers. "Talk to me about what it's like to do that with him."
"Do what?" Peter mumbled dazedly, then snapped back to attention when he felt her warm breath against the head of his cock. "Oh god... that," he said. "Oh, god, yeah, I did that."
"Did what?" Claire whispered. "You can tell me." She just lay her lips against him; not quite a kiss, as she didn't draw back, just pressed her lips against him, her hand idly stroking against the shaft on the other side. Peter's toes curled inside his sneakers.
"I sucked his cock," he breathed, looking instead at the ceiling. "It was good. He even fucked my mouth a little, almost like it was for old time's sake. It was so good, it's always so good. I used to lie in bed awake at night thinking about it. I was... so shocked; I didn't think it would be like that, so good like that. I wanted someone to fuck my mouth for a long time after that; it just seemed like the most... amazing thing in the world..." Peter had a hard time clinging to the thread of his story, with the girl tentatively fellating him, but not really knowing how to do it. Somehow, her incompetence was even more erotic than expertise; it just reinforced how young she was, how untried. He could teach her so much. "And I did a bunch of other stuff before I ever had my mouth fucked again and forgot all about it... but oh, god, it's..."
"Go on," she whispered. "Tell me."
"It's..." Peter abruptly lunged for the tissue box at the end of the reach of his arm, the movement of his abdomen pushing his cock deep inside her mouth. She moved back off him, coughing, her hand moving to her mouth, her throat, and Peter wanted to apologize, but found that his entire body was now focused on orgasm, striking him mute but for ecstatic, stuttering hisses. It was like he hadn't come for days; he had to grab for more tissues before his vision cleared and he returned to his body.
Claire was staring, massaging her throat. "Wow. Is, um, that what it's like?"
"Not ideally, no," Peter said, laughing faintly, half blissed, half embarrassed.. "That was an accident. I didn't get you, did I? I'm sorry; did I hurt you?"
"No," she said with a smile. "No. I can kinda see what you were talking about."
"It's kind of--yeah. It's just... wrong. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have."
"You're welcome," she grinned. "C'mon, let's go. We've even got time to get a cup of coffee."
On the flight itself, Peter drew in his sketchbook so feverishly that he never noticed the time passing. He wasn't in a vision state--he knew the feeling of that now--but he felt physically compelled to get out his sketchbook and #1 pencil, and it felt almost as achingly good to draw as it did to have sex. He only returned to himself when Claire shook his sleeve and told him that the plane was landing. Together, they perused his recent sketches: two seated stick figures, back to back; a pair of glasses with one broken lens; an amazingly detailed watch with exposed gears and wheels, one of the gears, outside the watch, with one broken cog.
And a face. Not drawn with great skill, but completely recognizable, almost a successful caricature--matted hair like twigs, heavy swooping black eyebrows, full mouth, staring eyes as keen and precise as lasers.
"Jesus," said Claire, recoiling even from the drawing. "What'd you draw him for?"
"I don't know," said Peter numbly, feeling the lie spread out between them like a stain. The funny thing was, he felt a weird pang of guilt, looking not at the portrait of Sylar, but at the picture of the watch, as though he was viewing something private, like reading someone else's diary.
"Well," said the girl, now apprehensive, "at least as long as we stick together, you won't get hurt. Oh, by the way? If there's anything that sticks me in the brain? If you're there, could you pull it out, please?"
"What? Yeah, sure."
"Seriously, Peter," she said, watching him stand up into the airplane aisle, "I gotta tell you some things."
Between Newark and the tunnels, Claire explained the oddities and limitations of her healing power to Peter, and Peter listened intently; but once they came out into Manhattan proper, Claire fell silent, staring out the window of the service car at the lights and traffic. "I'm in New York," she breathed reverently after a moment. "I can't believe it."
"It's just a city," Peter said, trying to sound casual. "I mean, it's just THE city. The only one really. The other ones are just the Disneyland miniatures." He was warming up to his usual Manhattan-centric rant, but his cell phone chirped for an incoming message.
New Message from ISAAC MENDEZ
Did you see Hiro?
Peter sent back He told me to get back here.
Isaac returned You were gone? Explains lots. Hiro is here btw, said he tried to contact you, couldn't. Call please.
"Hiro's there?" Peter said aloud.
Claire raised her eyebrows. "Hiro?"
"Hiro Nakamura," Peter explained. "That Japanese guy that called you on your disposable? Yeah... he, uh... he can bend time and space." Peter heaved a deep sigh, not noticing Claire staring wide-eyed at him. "He visits me from the future. A lot these days. It's really unsettling. He's sort of ... nudging me into position. Between he and Isaac and your dad... sometimes I wonder how much free will I even have."
"He's a time traveller?"
"Yeah," said Peter. "And some bad shit is going to go down, apparently. Nothing I'm doing seems to be stopping that from happening. I just can't fit all the pieces together to know what it is exactly that I'm supposed to do. All I know is that I have to be the one to save everybody. Hiro told me himself--'Be the one we need.' I don't even know what that means. According to your dad, I'm the only one who can take down Sylar; I guess Sylar is going to try to end the world. Or something."
Claire shuddered. "Ugh, I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"OK... I have to call Isaac. We're almost there; we should be able to grab a bite to eat downstairs... there's a little vegan Middle Eastern deli down there..."
Isaac sounded agitated. "Peter."
"Isaac, what's going on."
"Where did you go?"
"I can't talk about it right now," Peter said, glancing at Claire. "Maybe you should come over or something, actually."
"Come over...? To your place? Uh, yeah, I guess I could do that. Hiro and Ando are here--you want them to come too?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we've gotta talk. There's some stuff we gotta figure out; I have to talk to Hiro. By the way, what's he look like?"
Isaac huffed slightly. "Like a... Japanese dude," isaac said, then in a quieter, close voice (hand over the phone), "like a nerd, man. Glasses, blue polo shirt, unironic bedhead. Sorry, Ando."
Faintly, from the background, "No problem. It is true."
"OK," said Peter. He read Isaac his address. "How you doing?"
"To be honest," said Isaac, still quiet, "I'm jonesing. I miss the needle. The needle's my girlfriend."
"Simone's your girlfriend."
"Simone's your girlfriend. I thought we established this."
"She's my beloved," Peter sighed, "it's not the same thing. What do you think, thirty minutes?"
"Make it forty-five--Oh wait. Hiro wants to speak to you." There was silence on the line for a moment, then rapid, excited breaths punctuated with a slowly, painstakingly pronounced, "He-llo, this is Hiro Nakamura."
"Hiro," replied Peter, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. He sounded like such a spunky young goof; what was going to happen to forge him into the unsmiling black iron weapon that he had met on the subway? "This is Peter Petrelli."
"Oh, Peter Petrelli. I am so glad to speak with you. Will I see you later?"
"Yes, Hiro, you'll see me later."
"Good. I am happy."
"I am happy too," said Peter, smiling so much his face hurt. "I gotta go. I'll see you soon. Goodbye."
"Bye-bye! Peter!"
Peter put the phone away and wiped his eyes. "God," he said, shaking all over suddenly, "it's so fucked. Oh, God, I have to stop it." He couldn't give in to the wave of angst, though; the car had arrived outside his building at last. He signed the credit card slip and trudged inside, heading up the familiar stairs because the elevator was, as usual, broken. Claire followed silently along behind him.
He sat on the couch and put his face in his hands.
"Your apartment is really cool," Claire's voice broke into his haze of misery.
He straightened up and took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, "it's pretty nice. I wish I could afford it. It's my mom's Christmas present to me every year; she pays my rent. It's rent-controlled, at least, so it's not that crazy... but all my salary goes towards paying off my loans. All my clothes, my mom bought for me... Jesus. You're probably more self-sufficient than me."
"Peter, don't do this to yourself."
"I'm not doing to myself; destiny's doing it to me," he protested. "OK, I am doing this to myself. This attitude is not helping. But my God, I'm fuckin' scared. If you ever see Hiro from the future--well, you'll see him in the future, I guess. It's just--do you ever just want your old life back?"
"Every minute," said Claire, steady-eyed, "of every day. You're not doing this alone, so stop telling yourself that you are. You're not special."
"I am special, though, Claire," said Peter. "I am special. Even--compared to the rest of you. I am special."
Claire arched her eyebrows. "OK," she said, her voice like a hand held up between them.
"Fuck. No. I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from." Peter took out his phone again. "I'm gonna make another call."
"To your therapist, I hope," she said, softening it with a quick hug and a kiss on the ear.
Peter smirked at her, then retreated to the bedroom and called Mohinder Suresh. He didn't expect that the phone would be answered, but the response was almost immediate. "Hello?"
"Mohinder? It's Peter Petrelli."
"Peter. Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. How's your research?"
"Incredible," Mohinder said, and Peter was surprised at his enthusiasm. "I've discovered so much--there are so many people in the world who have taken that next step. I wonder if they are even aware of it."
"Have you found out anything new about... Sylar?"
"Sylar. Birth name, Gabriel Gray. Plastic sheeting on his furniture. Or at least he had before. He hasn't returned to his former residence."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure? Should I check?" Mohinder seemed surprised.
"I think you should have surveillance on that place all the time," Peter said. "You never know when he might want to come back and revisit memories, or whatever."
"Oddly enough," Mohinder said, "a couple of FBI officers were just here today, saying the same thing."
"Tell me about them," said Peter, suddenly tingling with excitement.
"Uh... a man and a woman... the woman, blonde, with a rather sharp tongue. The man, tallish, stoutish, had a bad headache, I'm guessing, the whole time; he kept on grimacing and taking pills. Called... Hanson and Parkman. They are on Sylar's case. Agent Hanson, the woman, said that the empty unit was a dead end, and that they'll return tomorrow to get a closer look at my notes."
"Parkman," Peter breathed. "Matt Parkman. Did they give you any way to contact them?"
"Yes," said Mohinder, and read off three numbers, one for each and one for the local department.
"I don't know if you've done the right thing or not, Mohinder," said Peter. "Maybe the FBI doesn't... need to know about people with special abilities."
"They're trying to save lives," Mohinder said, a little taken aback. "They're trying to stop Sylar--don't you find that to be a worthy goal?"
"Yeah," said Peter, "it's what I'm doing."
He rang off, then dialed the number for Parkman before he had a chance to lose his nerve. It rang seven times, eight times; Peter got up and looked at himself in the mirror. Unshaven, a little sunburnt on the cheeks, huge eyes staring out of a too-thin face. When the other line picked up, it took him a moment to respond.
"Parkman. Who's this?" The voice was groggy, as if recently awakened.
"This is Peter Petrelli," Peter said. "I have an important message for you."
"Oh, you do? what is it?"
"It's important enough that I don't want to tell you over the phone."
"Oh, c'mon. You think you're being tapped?" said the policeman, then hesitated, thinking it over. "Where do you want to meet?"
"Well, where are you right now?"
"I'm at my hotel. In my room. Catching a nap. My head aches so bad these days--"
"Can I just come there? I just realized that I need someplace to go." Peter glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until Isaac and the others were due to arrive, and there he was, just sitting there, waiting for them to gather around him so he could...
...go catch fire and die.
"He's controlling me," Peter realized. "He's projecting things into my mind. He's--I'm not safe. I've gotta see you right away."
"Fine," said Parkman, obviously rattled and confused. "I'm at the Park Rose, on Third, number 512. When can I expect you?"
"Shortly," said Peter, hanging up. He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed a jar of peanut butter, and under Claire's baffled gaze, began to wolf down spoonfuls of it. He paused for breath, and pointed at her with the spoon. "It's the only thing I've got in here that hasn't gone bad," he explained. "I've gotta go. You stay here, wait for Isaac."
"What? I can't stay here by myself."
"You have to," Peter said. "When those other guys get here, and you being here, I don't think I can take that. I think it would actually kill me. I wasn't thinking when I told Isaac to come here; it wasn't me saying that. I think it would kill me if I were here. You by yourself, I can handle; you, Nathan, and Isaac, a day apart, I can handle. I don't think I can handle you, Isaac, and Hiro, all at the same time." He gave her a sad smile. "I've gotta go meet the next person on my list."
Claire frowned and pouted and shook her head, not looking at him anymore. "Dammit," she said in a small voice. "I know there's nothing you can do about that."
"He's making me do stuff I don't want to do," Peter sighed. "He's showing me that he can make me into whatever he wants. It's fucked. He can't have this much power. I have got to get rid of him; I've got to kill him if it's the last thing I ever do."
"Peter, you are so not making sense."
"People always tell me that," Peter snapped, and tossed the peanut butter jar back into the fridge. "You'll be safe with them. I've got my phone."
"You were supposed to protect me."
"I did what you asked," Peter said. "I went all that way to get you away from your dad. Now you're here." He shook his head. "I can't stop. Every time I turn around, there's more at stake. He's manipulating my mind. And I can't take him the way I am now. For some reason. I need to gain more before I can even have you. Please. You'll be all right with them. Hiro and Ando are just the sweetest guys, and Isaac--well, um, he's OK. Here's my friend Simone's number, just in case. If anything weird happens, call her. But call me first. But I might not be able to help. I gotta go."
"So this is what it's like to be a superhero's girlfriend," Claire mused. "I don't think I like it."
"If this is what it's like to be a superhero, I don't like it either," said Peter, and shut the door.
...TO BE CONTINUED...
previous:: next