All the People We Used to Know, Part 12/12
Title: All the People We Used to Know (12/12)
Sequel to: The Price of a Memory
Pairings: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Warnings: slash, AU, loosely holiday-related, starts out on the fluffy side but doesn’t stay that way, liberties taken with the Season Two timeline of events, possible inconsistency with canon materials not aired on television
Spoilers: AU after the end of Season One, but through Season Two just to be safe.
Summary: Six months after the events of The Price of a Memory, Claude finds himself participating under protest in a Petrelli family gathering. But more is going on than meets the eye and soon Claude and Peter are faced with a difficult decision.
Disclaimer: Heroes and the associated characters don’t belong to me.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven
All the People We Used to Know, Part 12/12
The next morning, Claude rose from bed to find a note attached to the icebox where the family tree used to be, distinguishable from the dozens of other sticky notes that littered the place only in the fact that it was bright green and therefore adhered to the strict color code he and Peter had established a few months back after a minor misunderstanding involving a stop at the dry cleaner’s. From then on, Peter had been free to write notes meant only for himself in any color he pleased so long as it wasn’t bright green, which was the designated color for a note addressed to Claude. Mostly, these kinds of communications involved mundane, frighteningly domestic requests like Pick up milk from the market if you go out and Don’t forget to bring the DVD back to the video shop. This one said simply, At the loft.
It wasn’t standard practice in their relationship for Peter to inform Claude when he planned on spending time at Isaac Mendez’s old place. Which was fine with Claude because, as far as he could tell, Peter’s activity of choice when he was there was a particularly solitary form of brooding. That was when he wasn’t going all filmy-eyed and painting pictures of an apocalyptic future. No, the loft was not exactly a place where one went to throw tea parties and Claude was all too happy to stay away as long as Peter remembered to come back at the end of the day.
But now Peter was openly telling him his whereabouts, outright and in no uncertain terms. Not only that, but the wording made it somehow seem almost like some sort of invitation for Claude to follow at his earliest possible convenience.
Resenting the loss of the languid morning he’d been hoping to enjoy following their vigorous fulfillment of the “New Year’s sex” idea during the night, Claude debated with himself as he washed and dressed. If Peter really wanted him at the loft, why hadn’t he just waited until Claude was awake enough to go with him in the first place instead of leaving such an ambiguous message? Now Claude had to haul himself all the way over there, not even certain this his presence was wanted. What was he supposed to do if he arrived to find the boy feverishly creating an image of some fresh, new disaster for them all to prevent? Interrupt or just stand awkwardly to the side until Peter realized he was there? Neither option appealed to him but worrying like this made him feel like some sort of soppy girl and while there was nothing in writing, it was a clear stipulation of their relationship that if either of them was the girl, it was Peter.
Of course, Claude wasn’t above planning for contingencies and so once he arrived at the loft, he turned himself invisible in the hopes of easing his escape if one was needed. But when he walked in, he didn’t find Peter painting at all. Instead, he sat seated on a stool at a worktable in the middle of the room, bent over a large sheet of paper, pencil poised and ready. He lowered it as soon as the door closed behind Claude.
“You slept late,” Peter commented, looking up in Claude’s general direction without seeing him.
“I’m an old man,” Claude reminded him. “You wore me out last night.”
Peter made a face but tactfully said nothing as Claude approached the table, shedding his invisibility as he went. He hovered a bit before sliding onto the stool next to Peter. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“This is about what Bennet said to you, isn’t it?” Claude asked eventually. “That morning when the two of you disappeared, I mean.”
Peter scratched idly at a cloudy stain on the table’s surface. Without looking up, he answered, “Yeah.”
Claude waited for him to go on.
“It’s not like the stuff he was telling me was anything new,” Peter said. “Mostly he just talked about how the only way to protect Claire from the Company is to destroy them and how Mohinder is trying to protect Molly by doing the same.” He frowned pensively. “He said there were ways I could help too.”
A cold feeling poured down Claude’s spine. “And what ways are these?” he asked.
Peter looked up, meeting Claude’s eyes. There was a gleam there Claude didn’t like. “He said the Company is looking for me. That because of my powers they think I’m dangerous and they want to put me away.” Claude nodded to let Peter know this wasn’t news. “Bennet thinks I should let them. I should get caught on purpose or turn myself in. That way I could gather information from the inside or--”
“No,” Claude said.
Peter’s mouth clamped shut.
“What about you?” he asked. “What did Bennet ask you to do?”
“He wants me to go to the Ukraine with him and the Haitian,” Claude said. “Pay a visit to an old mentor of ours and maybe find some paintings Isaac Mendez did before he died.”
“Paintings of what?” Peter asked.
“The downfall of the Company, supposedly,” Claude said. “Anyway, there’s eight of them. Suresh and Bennet only have two.” He hesitated. “One shows the death of an old friend of your mother’s--Kaito Nakamura. Hiro Nakamura’s father.”
Peter’s shoulders stiffened at this news.
“The other painting shows Bennet’s death,” Claude said.
Peter nodded, absorbing this impassively before shifting on his seat, leaning forward.
“If I went and things got bad, I could always get out,” he said. “I can walk through walls, remember?”
“You couldn’t,” Claude said. “They’d feed you these pills that subdue your powers. Make you like any other prisoner in any other prison. You could hide them under your tongue or whatever but they’d figure out what you were up to. If you wanted to make them trust you enough to give you the kind of information Bennet is talking about, you’d have to actually take the pills. At least at first. Which means you’d be trapped.”
Peter looked at his hands. “This mentor guy…when you say the three of you are going to ‘pay him a visit’ you actually mean you’re going to kill him. Don’t you?”
“Imagine so,” Claude said. “Don’t know if Bennet’s admitted to himself that that’s what’s going to happen, but I can’t believe he’d leave the man alive and free to tell the Company what happened to him. Even if he couldn’t tell them who it was did it, Bennet would be the prime suspect and they’d be sure to go after his family straight away.”
Peter swallowed. “But what if this guy has a family? Kids or grandkids or…”
Claude shook his head grimly.
“Jesus,” Peter said, running a hand through his hair. “What are you going to do?”
Claude lifted his shoulders. “Reckon it’s like what you said when your family wanted you to stay through Christmas,” he sad. “First it’ll just be killing Ivan. Then it will be playing connect-the-dots with Mendez’s paintings. Soon I’ll be pulled in and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back out again.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “But you want to do it.”
“Part of me does,” Claude admitted. “Mostly just so I’ll have a way of avoiding your family stringing me up by the balls if I let you do your end of it.” He didn’t like the way his voice wavered when he said it, but he didn’t do anything to try to cover it or explain it away.
“Nathan always says I have a problem telling the difference between being a superhero and being an idiot,” Peter said wryly.
“Seems to me they’re the same thing,” Claude said.
Peter shifted. “I’ve thought about this,” he said. “I mean, I’ve actually thought about it this time. And I don’t think I just want to stand around doing nothing. I’m tired of doing nothing.”
“That’s your mother talking,” Claude said.
“Yeah, because I’m sure this is exactly what she meant when she said I should try to find something worthwhile to do with my life,” Peter said.
Claude frowned. “She’ll murder me, you know,” he said. At Peter’s skeptical look, he added. “No, really. She will. She told me so that day in the kitchen. And some of us can’t come back from that the way you can, mind.”
“There has to be someone out there who has the power to resurrect the dead,” Peter said. “I mean, there’s everything else. Why not that?”
“And I suppose you’ll be putting an ad in the paper so you can find this person?” Claude said. “Anyway, I don’t think it works when you’ve been chopped up into pieces and posted in small boxes to obscure locations around the globe.” He shuddered.
Peter smiled briefly at this before becoming serious again. “We can’t just do nothing,” he said.
And like that, it seemed the decision was made.
Claude shifted and now it was his turn to lean forward, training his gaze on Peter so he knew the boy was listening to the sudden rush of words spilling out of him. “Inside the facility the Company has, there’s this man. A prisoner. He’s called Adam Monroe.” He waited for Peter to nod before he went on. “Whatever you do, don’t listen to a word he says. Do you understand? Not a single word.”
Peter’s smile was one of confusion. “You really think they’d be stupid enough to put us in two cells close enough that we could actually talk?”
“I’ve seen them do stupider things,” Claude said. “Point is, I don’t care what Adam Monroe tells you. He’s a crazy, bitter old man. Don’t listen to him.”
The bewildered look didn’t leave Peter’s face even as, instead of giving Claude the promise he sought, he said simply, “I love you.”
And as the words left his mouth, his arm moved and for the first time Claude could see what it was he’d been drawing before. It wasn’t any kind of blood-soaked image of the future, as Claude would have guessed, but instead another sketch of the famous family tree, a copy of the one Claude had made for Peter to practice on before they’d made the trip to Washington. On it were the same predictable names: Angela and Arthur, Nathan and Heidi and their kids. Claire and Bennet. But this time in the space next to Peter’s name, which was usually blank for all that he had no spouse to put there, he’d written and erased and written again two words: Claude Rains.
Seeing his name there, written in such neat print like Peter had actually been trying to make his usual scrawl legible for once, Claude privately despaired. He found himself wishing it was the end of the world Peter had been drawing after all--some sort of indication of what they were both walking into and how this was all going to end. The uncertainty of it all daunted him but the clock had run out and it was time to move.
END
Author's Note: Well, here we are at the finish line once again. In case I haven't said it enough, you've been a truly awesome audience. A big thank you for all your wonderful insights and comments. You've really helped to make writing and posting this story a great journey for me. I hope you enjoyed the ride. :)
Sequel to: The Price of a Memory
Pairings: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Warnings: slash, AU, loosely holiday-related, starts out on the fluffy side but doesn’t stay that way, liberties taken with the Season Two timeline of events, possible inconsistency with canon materials not aired on television
Spoilers: AU after the end of Season One, but through Season Two just to be safe.
Summary: Six months after the events of The Price of a Memory, Claude finds himself participating under protest in a Petrelli family gathering. But more is going on than meets the eye and soon Claude and Peter are faced with a difficult decision.
Disclaimer: Heroes and the associated characters don’t belong to me.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven
All the People We Used to Know, Part 12/12
The next morning, Claude rose from bed to find a note attached to the icebox where the family tree used to be, distinguishable from the dozens of other sticky notes that littered the place only in the fact that it was bright green and therefore adhered to the strict color code he and Peter had established a few months back after a minor misunderstanding involving a stop at the dry cleaner’s. From then on, Peter had been free to write notes meant only for himself in any color he pleased so long as it wasn’t bright green, which was the designated color for a note addressed to Claude. Mostly, these kinds of communications involved mundane, frighteningly domestic requests like Pick up milk from the market if you go out and Don’t forget to bring the DVD back to the video shop. This one said simply, At the loft.
It wasn’t standard practice in their relationship for Peter to inform Claude when he planned on spending time at Isaac Mendez’s old place. Which was fine with Claude because, as far as he could tell, Peter’s activity of choice when he was there was a particularly solitary form of brooding. That was when he wasn’t going all filmy-eyed and painting pictures of an apocalyptic future. No, the loft was not exactly a place where one went to throw tea parties and Claude was all too happy to stay away as long as Peter remembered to come back at the end of the day.
But now Peter was openly telling him his whereabouts, outright and in no uncertain terms. Not only that, but the wording made it somehow seem almost like some sort of invitation for Claude to follow at his earliest possible convenience.
Resenting the loss of the languid morning he’d been hoping to enjoy following their vigorous fulfillment of the “New Year’s sex” idea during the night, Claude debated with himself as he washed and dressed. If Peter really wanted him at the loft, why hadn’t he just waited until Claude was awake enough to go with him in the first place instead of leaving such an ambiguous message? Now Claude had to haul himself all the way over there, not even certain this his presence was wanted. What was he supposed to do if he arrived to find the boy feverishly creating an image of some fresh, new disaster for them all to prevent? Interrupt or just stand awkwardly to the side until Peter realized he was there? Neither option appealed to him but worrying like this made him feel like some sort of soppy girl and while there was nothing in writing, it was a clear stipulation of their relationship that if either of them was the girl, it was Peter.
Of course, Claude wasn’t above planning for contingencies and so once he arrived at the loft, he turned himself invisible in the hopes of easing his escape if one was needed. But when he walked in, he didn’t find Peter painting at all. Instead, he sat seated on a stool at a worktable in the middle of the room, bent over a large sheet of paper, pencil poised and ready. He lowered it as soon as the door closed behind Claude.
“You slept late,” Peter commented, looking up in Claude’s general direction without seeing him.
“I’m an old man,” Claude reminded him. “You wore me out last night.”
Peter made a face but tactfully said nothing as Claude approached the table, shedding his invisibility as he went. He hovered a bit before sliding onto the stool next to Peter. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“This is about what Bennet said to you, isn’t it?” Claude asked eventually. “That morning when the two of you disappeared, I mean.”
Peter scratched idly at a cloudy stain on the table’s surface. Without looking up, he answered, “Yeah.”
Claude waited for him to go on.
“It’s not like the stuff he was telling me was anything new,” Peter said. “Mostly he just talked about how the only way to protect Claire from the Company is to destroy them and how Mohinder is trying to protect Molly by doing the same.” He frowned pensively. “He said there were ways I could help too.”
A cold feeling poured down Claude’s spine. “And what ways are these?” he asked.
Peter looked up, meeting Claude’s eyes. There was a gleam there Claude didn’t like. “He said the Company is looking for me. That because of my powers they think I’m dangerous and they want to put me away.” Claude nodded to let Peter know this wasn’t news. “Bennet thinks I should let them. I should get caught on purpose or turn myself in. That way I could gather information from the inside or--”
“No,” Claude said.
Peter’s mouth clamped shut.
“What about you?” he asked. “What did Bennet ask you to do?”
“He wants me to go to the Ukraine with him and the Haitian,” Claude said. “Pay a visit to an old mentor of ours and maybe find some paintings Isaac Mendez did before he died.”
“Paintings of what?” Peter asked.
“The downfall of the Company, supposedly,” Claude said. “Anyway, there’s eight of them. Suresh and Bennet only have two.” He hesitated. “One shows the death of an old friend of your mother’s--Kaito Nakamura. Hiro Nakamura’s father.”
Peter’s shoulders stiffened at this news.
“The other painting shows Bennet’s death,” Claude said.
Peter nodded, absorbing this impassively before shifting on his seat, leaning forward.
“If I went and things got bad, I could always get out,” he said. “I can walk through walls, remember?”
“You couldn’t,” Claude said. “They’d feed you these pills that subdue your powers. Make you like any other prisoner in any other prison. You could hide them under your tongue or whatever but they’d figure out what you were up to. If you wanted to make them trust you enough to give you the kind of information Bennet is talking about, you’d have to actually take the pills. At least at first. Which means you’d be trapped.”
Peter looked at his hands. “This mentor guy…when you say the three of you are going to ‘pay him a visit’ you actually mean you’re going to kill him. Don’t you?”
“Imagine so,” Claude said. “Don’t know if Bennet’s admitted to himself that that’s what’s going to happen, but I can’t believe he’d leave the man alive and free to tell the Company what happened to him. Even if he couldn’t tell them who it was did it, Bennet would be the prime suspect and they’d be sure to go after his family straight away.”
Peter swallowed. “But what if this guy has a family? Kids or grandkids or…”
Claude shook his head grimly.
“Jesus,” Peter said, running a hand through his hair. “What are you going to do?”
Claude lifted his shoulders. “Reckon it’s like what you said when your family wanted you to stay through Christmas,” he sad. “First it’ll just be killing Ivan. Then it will be playing connect-the-dots with Mendez’s paintings. Soon I’ll be pulled in and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back out again.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “But you want to do it.”
“Part of me does,” Claude admitted. “Mostly just so I’ll have a way of avoiding your family stringing me up by the balls if I let you do your end of it.” He didn’t like the way his voice wavered when he said it, but he didn’t do anything to try to cover it or explain it away.
“Nathan always says I have a problem telling the difference between being a superhero and being an idiot,” Peter said wryly.
“Seems to me they’re the same thing,” Claude said.
Peter shifted. “I’ve thought about this,” he said. “I mean, I’ve actually thought about it this time. And I don’t think I just want to stand around doing nothing. I’m tired of doing nothing.”
“That’s your mother talking,” Claude said.
“Yeah, because I’m sure this is exactly what she meant when she said I should try to find something worthwhile to do with my life,” Peter said.
Claude frowned. “She’ll murder me, you know,” he said. At Peter’s skeptical look, he added. “No, really. She will. She told me so that day in the kitchen. And some of us can’t come back from that the way you can, mind.”
“There has to be someone out there who has the power to resurrect the dead,” Peter said. “I mean, there’s everything else. Why not that?”
“And I suppose you’ll be putting an ad in the paper so you can find this person?” Claude said. “Anyway, I don’t think it works when you’ve been chopped up into pieces and posted in small boxes to obscure locations around the globe.” He shuddered.
Peter smiled briefly at this before becoming serious again. “We can’t just do nothing,” he said.
And like that, it seemed the decision was made.
Claude shifted and now it was his turn to lean forward, training his gaze on Peter so he knew the boy was listening to the sudden rush of words spilling out of him. “Inside the facility the Company has, there’s this man. A prisoner. He’s called Adam Monroe.” He waited for Peter to nod before he went on. “Whatever you do, don’t listen to a word he says. Do you understand? Not a single word.”
Peter’s smile was one of confusion. “You really think they’d be stupid enough to put us in two cells close enough that we could actually talk?”
“I’ve seen them do stupider things,” Claude said. “Point is, I don’t care what Adam Monroe tells you. He’s a crazy, bitter old man. Don’t listen to him.”
The bewildered look didn’t leave Peter’s face even as, instead of giving Claude the promise he sought, he said simply, “I love you.”
And as the words left his mouth, his arm moved and for the first time Claude could see what it was he’d been drawing before. It wasn’t any kind of blood-soaked image of the future, as Claude would have guessed, but instead another sketch of the famous family tree, a copy of the one Claude had made for Peter to practice on before they’d made the trip to Washington. On it were the same predictable names: Angela and Arthur, Nathan and Heidi and their kids. Claire and Bennet. But this time in the space next to Peter’s name, which was usually blank for all that he had no spouse to put there, he’d written and erased and written again two words: Claude Rains.
Seeing his name there, written in such neat print like Peter had actually been trying to make his usual scrawl legible for once, Claude privately despaired. He found himself wishing it was the end of the world Peter had been drawing after all--some sort of indication of what they were both walking into and how this was all going to end. The uncertainty of it all daunted him but the clock had run out and it was time to move.
END
Author's Note: Well, here we are at the finish line once again. In case I haven't said it enough, you've been a truly awesome audience. A big thank you for all your wonderful insights and comments. You've really helped to make writing and posting this story a great journey for me. I hope you enjoyed the ride. :)