Short Fic: "Do you ever imagine...?" (Peter/Claire, PG)
Claire often asks him - over the phone, or whenever she comes from California to visit the Petrellis - if he ever imagines what the future will bring for them. For the special people like them, that is, she always rushes to clarify, as if there could be any other way her question might be interpreted.
Both know there is other way to understand those words, but none of them ever says it aloud. Like so many other things between them, it’s something that doesn’t need to be expressed with the spoken word to know it’s there.
It just is.
Peter rarely answers her, though. In the seldom occasions he does, he vaguely murmurs something about destiny, fate and changing the world for the better. His eyes sparkle, the golden freckles becoming more prominent in the soft brown background. And he seems to be looking at her in a whole new dimension, as if she was somebody he had just met for the first time.
Most of the time, though, he says nothing. He just smiles that damn crooked grin of his that melts her heart and there is such an enigmatic expression in his handsome face that is the blonde Texan the one that feels like meeting him for the first time.
There is something he knows and that he is not telling her, she is sure. It drives her mad, to the point she wants to punch him.
Claire sometimes yields to the temptation, delivering a hit to his shoulder with her tiny fist. He thinks it’s amazing how somebody so petite can have so much strength as he yelps in mocked pain.
“Spill the beans, Petrelli,” she slits her green eyes at him.
But Peter only laughs good-naturally and shakes his head in denial, quickly changing the subject. How’s her life in California? Still seeing that West guy?
There’s always a strange intonation to his voice when he says his name. Claire doesn’t want to really consider it, but she suspects it’s the same one he would use to say stuff like ‘ethnic cleansing’ or ‘projectile vomiting’. She doesn’t want to go there.
It’s not safe.
So she asks again, pouting, knowing her uncle - and it’s now her mind voice the one using that same intonation to pronounce that goddamned word - can’t deny her anything when she begs him with puppy eyes.
But the enigmatic look returns to his face, along with that bone-melting smile. She wants to wipe it off.
Maybe with a kiss.
Claire does not, however. She just crosses her arms and frowns, childishly shutting him out.
Peter doesn’t get annoyed by this. He finds it somehow endearing, knows it’s a game that only the two of them know how to play. That only them find amusement and joy in playing. He takes her out for some ice-cream, maybe a movie or a musical, or some Manhattan sight-seeing. It’s not that she can stay for long in the Big Apple before going back to California, her home and her boyfriend.
There’s simply no time to stay angry.
It’s only later, when she is already in the plane flying back and he is alone in his apartment, that he pulls out the canvas he painted not long after his return from death. That he looks at it with amazed eyes and he allows his enigmatic smile to return and become a full-fledged one of joy.
It’s a large painting this one, almost as tall as himself is. And it’s so detailed it took him an entire day to pain it. Although, of course, he barely remembers himself doing so.
There’s a man in it. He is wearing a large black coat, reaching down to his ankles. And, strangely, a black Kato mask over his eyes - like the one Bruce Lee used in that sixties TV series. His hair is longish - emo, some people would call it - and it falls down over his face, almost obscuring his features.
Peter runs a hand through his now-short hair and wonders how long until he feels the impulse of letting it grow back.
There’s a girl in it too, and she is wearing strange clothing as well. A red and white uniform that he knows reminds him of some cheerleader uniform he saw once, but it’s not quite like. The reminiscence is above all cut short because of the red cape falling down her shoulders and the tiny mask - like the man’s but in red - covering her eyes.
He knows they are green, although he can’t see them. And he can’t because they are closed.
Blissfully closed as the girl with the golden locks and the man with the dark hair embrace and kiss soulfully.
There’s more people in the drawing too, although they’re not as prominent as the two lovers - and he knows that’s what they are. They are also wearing the same over-the-top style of super-heroic outfits, surrounding the kissing duo and clapping and cheering in joy.
He recognizes some of the faces, some others belong to people he is yet to meet. Matt Parkman’s head is covered by some strange hat - really strange - but he can recognize the jaw line. He seems to be the one cheering the most. Nikki’s outfit is so revealing he sometimes blushes upon looking at her figure. Hiro, so cool and bad-ass in his black leather ninja costume, but without the hardness or desperation of his future self.
And Jesus, Nathan’s white, red and blue, US flag-themed, Superman-like uniform makes him crack up in laugher every single time.
But his brother is smiling at the kissing couple too, even if in a less extroverted way than the LA cop, and he is softly clapping. That fills Peter heart with joy.
And New York stands in the background. Ravaged, buildings burning, but still standing. Alive.
This is the aftermath of a battle - a really big one. One that has been fought, and won.
This is the Future, a wildest one than he could have ever conjured with the power of his imagination.
And, the thing that amazes him the most, the one detail in the painting that never fails to make him smile like a moron, is the tiny speech bubble at the bottom of the canvas.
In true comic-book fashion, it claims: “IS THIS THE END FOR LEGION, GOLDEN GIRL AND THE REST OF THE HERO LEAGUE? NO! IT’S JUST THE BEGINNING!!”
And Claire Bennet’s voice sound again in Peter Petrelli’s head, asking “Do you ever imagine what the future will bring for us?”
And this time he answers, “I don’t need to. I know.”
And boy, it’s gonna be awesome!
Both know there is other way to understand those words, but none of them ever says it aloud. Like so many other things between them, it’s something that doesn’t need to be expressed with the spoken word to know it’s there.
It just is.
Peter rarely answers her, though. In the seldom occasions he does, he vaguely murmurs something about destiny, fate and changing the world for the better. His eyes sparkle, the golden freckles becoming more prominent in the soft brown background. And he seems to be looking at her in a whole new dimension, as if she was somebody he had just met for the first time.
Most of the time, though, he says nothing. He just smiles that damn crooked grin of his that melts her heart and there is such an enigmatic expression in his handsome face that is the blonde Texan the one that feels like meeting him for the first time.
There is something he knows and that he is not telling her, she is sure. It drives her mad, to the point she wants to punch him.
Claire sometimes yields to the temptation, delivering a hit to his shoulder with her tiny fist. He thinks it’s amazing how somebody so petite can have so much strength as he yelps in mocked pain.
“Spill the beans, Petrelli,” she slits her green eyes at him.
But Peter only laughs good-naturally and shakes his head in denial, quickly changing the subject. How’s her life in California? Still seeing that West guy?
There’s always a strange intonation to his voice when he says his name. Claire doesn’t want to really consider it, but she suspects it’s the same one he would use to say stuff like ‘ethnic cleansing’ or ‘projectile vomiting’. She doesn’t want to go there.
It’s not safe.
So she asks again, pouting, knowing her uncle - and it’s now her mind voice the one using that same intonation to pronounce that goddamned word - can’t deny her anything when she begs him with puppy eyes.
But the enigmatic look returns to his face, along with that bone-melting smile. She wants to wipe it off.
Maybe with a kiss.
Claire does not, however. She just crosses her arms and frowns, childishly shutting him out.
Peter doesn’t get annoyed by this. He finds it somehow endearing, knows it’s a game that only the two of them know how to play. That only them find amusement and joy in playing. He takes her out for some ice-cream, maybe a movie or a musical, or some Manhattan sight-seeing. It’s not that she can stay for long in the Big Apple before going back to California, her home and her boyfriend.
There’s simply no time to stay angry.
It’s only later, when she is already in the plane flying back and he is alone in his apartment, that he pulls out the canvas he painted not long after his return from death. That he looks at it with amazed eyes and he allows his enigmatic smile to return and become a full-fledged one of joy.
It’s a large painting this one, almost as tall as himself is. And it’s so detailed it took him an entire day to pain it. Although, of course, he barely remembers himself doing so.
There’s a man in it. He is wearing a large black coat, reaching down to his ankles. And, strangely, a black Kato mask over his eyes - like the one Bruce Lee used in that sixties TV series. His hair is longish - emo, some people would call it - and it falls down over his face, almost obscuring his features.
Peter runs a hand through his now-short hair and wonders how long until he feels the impulse of letting it grow back.
There’s a girl in it too, and she is wearing strange clothing as well. A red and white uniform that he knows reminds him of some cheerleader uniform he saw once, but it’s not quite like. The reminiscence is above all cut short because of the red cape falling down her shoulders and the tiny mask - like the man’s but in red - covering her eyes.
He knows they are green, although he can’t see them. And he can’t because they are closed.
Blissfully closed as the girl with the golden locks and the man with the dark hair embrace and kiss soulfully.
There’s more people in the drawing too, although they’re not as prominent as the two lovers - and he knows that’s what they are. They are also wearing the same over-the-top style of super-heroic outfits, surrounding the kissing duo and clapping and cheering in joy.
He recognizes some of the faces, some others belong to people he is yet to meet. Matt Parkman’s head is covered by some strange hat - really strange - but he can recognize the jaw line. He seems to be the one cheering the most. Nikki’s outfit is so revealing he sometimes blushes upon looking at her figure. Hiro, so cool and bad-ass in his black leather ninja costume, but without the hardness or desperation of his future self.
And Jesus, Nathan’s white, red and blue, US flag-themed, Superman-like uniform makes him crack up in laugher every single time.
But his brother is smiling at the kissing couple too, even if in a less extroverted way than the LA cop, and he is softly clapping. That fills Peter heart with joy.
And New York stands in the background. Ravaged, buildings burning, but still standing. Alive.
This is the aftermath of a battle - a really big one. One that has been fought, and won.
This is the Future, a wildest one than he could have ever conjured with the power of his imagination.
And, the thing that amazes him the most, the one detail in the painting that never fails to make him smile like a moron, is the tiny speech bubble at the bottom of the canvas.
In true comic-book fashion, it claims: “IS THIS THE END FOR LEGION, GOLDEN GIRL AND THE REST OF THE HERO LEAGUE? NO! IT’S JUST THE BEGINNING!!”
And Claire Bennet’s voice sound again in Peter Petrelli’s head, asking “Do you ever imagine what the future will bring for us?”
And this time he answers, “I don’t need to. I know.”
And boy, it’s gonna be awesome!