Fic: Lots of Planets Have a North
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,665
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: *deep breath* Happy birthday, visiblemarket, happy belated birthday, englishmuffin2, and happy third Plaude anniversary to me! *gasps*
Summary: Kinda maybe sort of sure why not prequel to Fantastic.
Warning: Pretty silly. And probably OOC since if Peter was this big a scifi nerd, we would've heard about it.
Peter didn’t realize it right away. The beard and long coat are good camouflage, almost as good as invisibility. It’s not until they’re on the roof, and Peter mentions something about the Company during a break. Claude looks away, face going dark and haunted. Blue eyes staring through time. Body ageing centuries in an instant. That’s when Peter realizes, Claude looks exactly like the Doctor.
Well, no, not like the Doctor, he considers, Like that guy- what’s his name... God, what is his name? He ponders this, worrying his lower lip, until he decides, Screw it. He looks like the Doctor and that’s that.
The realization is a welcome distraction once training recommences. Or, no, not a distraction. Rather the opposite, in fact. When Claude comes at him with the wooden pole, Peter’s paying perfect attention. Waiting for glimmers of Time Lord to show through. It’s easier than he would’ve thought, and he’s not sure if that’s a good mark for Claude or a bad one for the Doctor. In any case, there’s still a lot missing, and Peter decides that, with the wholly improbable mess his life has so recently become, what he really needs to get a hold on things is a project.
***
He starts off with the easiest thing.
“My coat!”
“Sorry! I’m sorry.” He is, kind of.
Claude looks up from his nearly torn off sleeve. His glare tempers slightly, “Well, was a decent bit of telekinesis, I’ll give ya’ that.”
Peter grins, “Thanks. Uh, anyway, you know, I think I could replace it for you. If you want.”
“Replace it? How you gonna do that?”
“There’s a men’s clothing store a few blocks away,” he hooks a thumb over his shoulder, “I’ll get you a new one.”
Claude rolls his eyes, “I could do that, Pete.”
“Yeah- yeah, I know, but I tore it, I’ll replace it. That’s only fair, right?”
Claude considers, and Peter imagines him spouting a quip about foolish apes and their hypocritical notions of fairness, but instead he says, “I’m hardly about to spend a New York winter with no coat, am I? Fine, off you go.”
Peter tries not to bolt from the roof with too much eagerness. Elation carries him all the way inside the shop to the rack of leather jackets he’d seen earlier- only to abandon him when he looks at the price tag. He stares at it in dismay, knowing instinctively that he won’t find a cheaper one that’s as perfect as this. It’s heavy and soft, already feels like it’s been lived in for years. The pockets are deep and in just the right places. He needs this jacket. Peter grits his teeth, makes sure there’s no anti-theft tag on the sleeve, and turns invisible.
Guilt drives him to leave as much of the jacket’s price as he can afford on the shop’s check-out counter, but it doesn’t stop him from walking out with it clutched in his hand. And it fades away almost completely when Claude slips his long arms inside, stretching the leather across his back and shoulders. He makes an appreciative noise, “Not bad at all, Pete. Cheers. This’ll do- what?”
Peter blinks. Closes his mouth. “Nothing. Sorry. Looks good.”
“Ya’ think?” He stands up straight in it, eyes and smile bright. Peter ignores the sudden weakness in his knees. This is a great start, but he’s not there yet.
***
It’s a big risk Peter’s taking, in a lot of ways. There’s a very high chance it won’t work at all. But... he wants to try. So training ends and he goes back to his apartment, and waits the hour or two before Claude wanders in like there are a million other places he could be. He’s still got the jacket on, wearing it like a second skin and that’s more than enough to quell most of Peter’s doubts.
Amid banal conversation and preparation of a pasta dinner for two, Peter begins to think. As hard and loud as he can. One idea- not even a sentence, not even a word. He can’t risk it. He’s not sure what kind of experience Claude has with mind-reading, let alone thought-projection. But then again, Peter can’t say he has any himself, just a vague idea gained from his disastrous encounter with that cop in Texas.
He gets no reward for his effort until near midnight, when he’s almost decided to call it quits and give his tired brain a rest. Claude lifts a hand, and scratches at a hairy cheek. Peter redoubles his efforts, and before long the hand lifts again, rubbing at the other cheek. Fingers run over strands of sandy brown hair, from forehead to crown and back again. Peter closes his eyes, placing his own forehead in his palm while he mentally screams at Claude.
“You got a headache, mate?”
Peter starts. He opens his eyes and finds Claude looking at him, one hand anchored at the top of his head, pulling his hair back. “Uh, a little one, yeah.”
Claude hums, eyeing Peter curiously. The empath imagines him pulling out his sonic screwdriver for a quick scan. Instead, he says, “Too much telekinesis will do that. ‘S probably a power you’re weaker with than others, since you got it from someone it didn’t belong to.”
Peter squeezes his eyes shut as a headache does begin to develop. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says, rubbing his temples with a thumb and middle finger.
“Hang on a second,” Claude says, and he’s suddenly up on his feet, striding into the bathroom. He flicks open the medicine cabinet door and plucks out a bottle. He shuts the door and pauses, eyes fixed on his reflection. He lifts his chin for a moment, then ducks it. Runs a hand over hair and beard. Peter barely dares to breathe. Claude sniffs and fills the cup on the sink with water. He carries it and the pill bottle back to the couch, plopping down and presenting them to Peter. “Take two and call me in the morning, yeah?”
Peter risks a smile as he receives them. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. You wouldn’t believe the headaches I used to get, early on. Takes a lot of concentration, doin’ these impossible things we do. And you’ve been concentrating today, I’m glad to see.”
“So my reward is I get to not be in pain?”
“Oh, do you prefer your headache? Sorry, my mistake.” He reaches for the bottle and cup, but Peter holds them away, meeting Claude’s smirk with one of his own.
“No, no, that’s okay. I’ll take them. That’s...” He trails off, registering Claude’s nearness through the press of flesh-heated leather against his arm and side and sharp blue eyes not five inches from his. “Uh...”
The eyes blink, and the heat abandons him as Claude all but leaps to his feet. He’s at the window in two quick steps, hands stuffed in new pockets as he stares down into the clearly fascinating street. Peter has to suppress a bewildered laugh at the man’s completely transparent display. He hadn’t really thought- barely let himself hope... But this, all of this, is probably a really bad idea. He should just back off, before this gets too-
“Y’got a razor, Pete? One of those electric ones?”
Then again... “Yeah, I do.”
Claude’s wiping at his beard like that’ll somehow get it off. “Cheers.”
***
Peter’s not really sure what he thought was going to happen when the unsolicited and unnoticed makeover was complete. The sound of TARDIS engines to echo out of an alley and his newly minted Doctor to whisk him away to a place that isn’t here? No. Claude’s Claude, just with a change of wardrobe, a shave, and a haircut. So the scenery’s improved anyway, and Peter contents himself with that. And tries not to mind too much that Claude doesn’t seem to want to be within arm’s reach of him.
Which makes him all the more confused when Claude storms into his apartment one day, grabs him by the neck of his shirt, and pins him against the wall. “Uh, hi?”
“Hi,” the man snarls. His free hand rises, and Peter flinches before he can register that it’s not curled into a fist, it’s holding something. A DVD case, adorned with the dramatically posed figures of a young blonde woman and a man wearing a black leather jacket. A backdrop of unmistakable TARDIS doors lies behind them and a sharp orange Doctor Who logo before. “I bloody dare you to explain this, mate.”
All air momentarily leaves Peter’s body. He stares at the DVD case in preference to whatever murder is no doubt on Claude’s face. He wonders if he should feel at all optimistic that Claude’s still calling him mate. “I, uh... I...”
The hand clenching his shirt tightens, pressing Claude’s knuckles against Peter’s throat. “Go on, out with it.”
“I wanted... to see... if I could?”
The world goes stone still, and Peter glances at Claude in time to watch the man’s face crumple into uproarious laughter. The clenched hand shifts to Peter’s shoulder, supporting Claude as loud guffaws tumble out of him. Peter tries to stay very still. As the first gale abates, Claude manages a few words, always interrupted by new peals of laughter, “You bastard... you little... sodding... Can’t even... Because you damn well could... ought to kill you...”
“Uh, I’m sorry?”
“No. No, no.” Both hands land on his shoulders, the DVD case pinned against his collarbone. Claude’s face practically glows with amusement. “This is brilliant, Peter. You’ve never impressed me more.”
“Thanks?”
“Too right.” The last of the laughter drains away, but Claude doesn’t seem inclined to let go of Peter.
The empath wonders what it would take to get the hand not holding the DVD to slide up to his neck, or even his cheek. Since all his ideas seem to be working out so disturbingly well for the moment, he lets his own hands rise and curl around Claude’s wrists, underneath leather cuffs.
It’s too much, and Claude slips out of his grip as he steps back. “So, ah, this Doctor any good? Last one I saw on television was the fool in the rainbow-colored jacket.”
“Well, you’ve got the DVDs right there, why don’t we watch them?”
Claude’s customary storm clouds finally make their unwelcome reappearance. “Pete, we’ve better things to be doin’ than sitting on the couch all day watching a TV show.”
Peter rolls his eyes with a frown, “Yeah, well, who knows? I might be dead sometime soon, and I say there’s a lot more danger out there than what watching one season of Doctor Who can do to us.” He steps away from the wall, slowly but definitively breaching Claude’s personal space. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
Claude grants him a small smirk, “Suppose I should get a look at my doppelganger, then, since you put in all this effort.”
It’s enough to make Peter grin and lead Claude to the couch.
***
Peter feels he does quite well keeping quiet and not glancing over to gauge Claude’s reaction to the show. Too much. He can’t help a small thrill at every reaction he hears, though. All the small hums and amused snorts and even the odd, barely noticeable jumps at the scary parts. And then comes the last ten minutes of the last episode, when the Bad Wolf triumphs and the Time Vortex has to be tamed. Claude is silent throughout, as the credits roll and Peter stops the DVD.
“So?” he hazards, “Not bad, right?”
Claude’s reply is a meaningless, “Hm.”
Nervousness worms its way through Peter’s stomach, “Not the worst person in the world to look like, anyway.”
Claude’s eyebrows twitch up and he nods.
Peter gives in, “You’re killing me here, Claude! Did you like it or not?”
“Liked it fine,” he replies simply, “Happy to’ve seen it.”
“That’s it? After all that, you liked it fine?”
Claude’s gaze has been wandering around the room since the show ended. Now it falls on Peter, “I do look a helluva lot like him, don’t I?”
Peter blinks. Feels strangely embarrassed to look at Claude now, with his shorn hair and bare face. He looks... worn. With shadows under his cheekbones and lines across his forehead. Peter thinks a real Time Lord would look like that, like he’s lived every day of his long, long life. “Yeah.”
“There’s more to it than just looks, you might’ve guessed.”
Peter swallows. Doesn’t dare poke at the heavy darkness Claude carries. Some days he aches to discover what it is. Some days he thinks it might break him to know.
“I’d like to be more like him. Then I’d have a magic blue box could take me anywhere, help me defeat my enemies...” He tries then for an ironic smile, but it dies quickly and Peter’s heart squeezes. “I know you’re not stupid, mate. Know you know full well what a shithole the world is. How nothin’ works out like it does on television.”
“Claude...” Peter starts, without having a clue what the rest of his sentence is.
And with that unerring sense of what will make him most uncomfortable, Claude sits there, waiting for him to speak.
“I know you’re not... him,” he manages, “I wasn’t trying to do that. That’s not what I... what I want.”
Claude says nothing. Doesn’t have to, when his expression says “Oh really, you don’t say?” with more eloquence than the words themselves could ever hold.
Peter groans, “And now I just feel more stupid trying to talk to you than I usually do. Fantastic.” He has to look away, to see if any of the sputtering emotions he feels can be accurately translated. He’s about to give up in despair, try to distract them both with food or training or something, when he feels a gentle touch on his arm. He looks at Claude, hoping his eyes aren’t begging for his release from the obligation to talk.
“I mentioned enemies, earlier,” the man says, “Basically pointless to compete with the Doctor on that score, ain’t it?” He cracks a smile, which Peter is happy to return. “He’s going up against life-threatening danger at least once a week. Doesn’t matter much if it isn’t really real, at least not to him. He faces it head on, and sends it packing more often than not.”
Peter’s somewhat lost now, but can say with confidence, “Yeah, he does.”
“And... all that hasn’t made him afraid... of everything else. The bad and... and the good. Pretty much the opposite, really.”
Peter comes to the gradual realization that Claude’s hand hasn’t left his arm, but instead now wraps around it, fingers splaying up to his shoulder. Pulling, just barely. He says a quick prayer that he isn’t interpreting this all wrong, and shifts in his seat so he faces Claude. The man’s face is... like a Time Lord’s, when he’s discovered something new. Peter can’t resist reaching up and running a thumb along the curve of a smile line, letting his fingertips brush soft short strands of hair. His other hand finds the slope of Claude’s neck. He leans forward, and so does Claude- nearly sending their noses crashing together if not for a quick dodge and nervous laughs from both.
“Tell me this isn’t some elaborate plot to pretend you’re sleeping with the Doctor.”
Peter grins, “I promise. Anyway, haven’t you heard? He’s hard work.” In the moment Claude takes to relax a fraction and let out a tiny chuckle, Peter kisses him, soft and sweet and real. He ends it after a heartbeat and the moment demands to hang there, drenched in significance. Which of course means Peter has to say something like, “So? Not bad, right?”
Claude rolls his eyes with reluctant laughter, “Shut up, Peter.”
The empath shrugs, “Okay.” He wanted to be kissing Claude again anyway.
Word Count: 2,665
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: *deep breath* Happy birthday, visiblemarket, happy belated birthday, englishmuffin2, and happy third Plaude anniversary to me! *gasps*
Summary: Kinda maybe sort of sure why not prequel to Fantastic.
Warning: Pretty silly. And probably OOC since if Peter was this big a scifi nerd, we would've heard about it.
Peter didn’t realize it right away. The beard and long coat are good camouflage, almost as good as invisibility. It’s not until they’re on the roof, and Peter mentions something about the Company during a break. Claude looks away, face going dark and haunted. Blue eyes staring through time. Body ageing centuries in an instant. That’s when Peter realizes, Claude looks exactly like the Doctor.
Well, no, not like the Doctor, he considers, Like that guy- what’s his name... God, what is his name? He ponders this, worrying his lower lip, until he decides, Screw it. He looks like the Doctor and that’s that.
The realization is a welcome distraction once training recommences. Or, no, not a distraction. Rather the opposite, in fact. When Claude comes at him with the wooden pole, Peter’s paying perfect attention. Waiting for glimmers of Time Lord to show through. It’s easier than he would’ve thought, and he’s not sure if that’s a good mark for Claude or a bad one for the Doctor. In any case, there’s still a lot missing, and Peter decides that, with the wholly improbable mess his life has so recently become, what he really needs to get a hold on things is a project.
***
He starts off with the easiest thing.
“My coat!”
“Sorry! I’m sorry.” He is, kind of.
Claude looks up from his nearly torn off sleeve. His glare tempers slightly, “Well, was a decent bit of telekinesis, I’ll give ya’ that.”
Peter grins, “Thanks. Uh, anyway, you know, I think I could replace it for you. If you want.”
“Replace it? How you gonna do that?”
“There’s a men’s clothing store a few blocks away,” he hooks a thumb over his shoulder, “I’ll get you a new one.”
Claude rolls his eyes, “I could do that, Pete.”
“Yeah- yeah, I know, but I tore it, I’ll replace it. That’s only fair, right?”
Claude considers, and Peter imagines him spouting a quip about foolish apes and their hypocritical notions of fairness, but instead he says, “I’m hardly about to spend a New York winter with no coat, am I? Fine, off you go.”
Peter tries not to bolt from the roof with too much eagerness. Elation carries him all the way inside the shop to the rack of leather jackets he’d seen earlier- only to abandon him when he looks at the price tag. He stares at it in dismay, knowing instinctively that he won’t find a cheaper one that’s as perfect as this. It’s heavy and soft, already feels like it’s been lived in for years. The pockets are deep and in just the right places. He needs this jacket. Peter grits his teeth, makes sure there’s no anti-theft tag on the sleeve, and turns invisible.
Guilt drives him to leave as much of the jacket’s price as he can afford on the shop’s check-out counter, but it doesn’t stop him from walking out with it clutched in his hand. And it fades away almost completely when Claude slips his long arms inside, stretching the leather across his back and shoulders. He makes an appreciative noise, “Not bad at all, Pete. Cheers. This’ll do- what?”
Peter blinks. Closes his mouth. “Nothing. Sorry. Looks good.”
“Ya’ think?” He stands up straight in it, eyes and smile bright. Peter ignores the sudden weakness in his knees. This is a great start, but he’s not there yet.
***
It’s a big risk Peter’s taking, in a lot of ways. There’s a very high chance it won’t work at all. But... he wants to try. So training ends and he goes back to his apartment, and waits the hour or two before Claude wanders in like there are a million other places he could be. He’s still got the jacket on, wearing it like a second skin and that’s more than enough to quell most of Peter’s doubts.
Amid banal conversation and preparation of a pasta dinner for two, Peter begins to think. As hard and loud as he can. One idea- not even a sentence, not even a word. He can’t risk it. He’s not sure what kind of experience Claude has with mind-reading, let alone thought-projection. But then again, Peter can’t say he has any himself, just a vague idea gained from his disastrous encounter with that cop in Texas.
He gets no reward for his effort until near midnight, when he’s almost decided to call it quits and give his tired brain a rest. Claude lifts a hand, and scratches at a hairy cheek. Peter redoubles his efforts, and before long the hand lifts again, rubbing at the other cheek. Fingers run over strands of sandy brown hair, from forehead to crown and back again. Peter closes his eyes, placing his own forehead in his palm while he mentally screams at Claude.
“You got a headache, mate?”
Peter starts. He opens his eyes and finds Claude looking at him, one hand anchored at the top of his head, pulling his hair back. “Uh, a little one, yeah.”
Claude hums, eyeing Peter curiously. The empath imagines him pulling out his sonic screwdriver for a quick scan. Instead, he says, “Too much telekinesis will do that. ‘S probably a power you’re weaker with than others, since you got it from someone it didn’t belong to.”
Peter squeezes his eyes shut as a headache does begin to develop. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says, rubbing his temples with a thumb and middle finger.
“Hang on a second,” Claude says, and he’s suddenly up on his feet, striding into the bathroom. He flicks open the medicine cabinet door and plucks out a bottle. He shuts the door and pauses, eyes fixed on his reflection. He lifts his chin for a moment, then ducks it. Runs a hand over hair and beard. Peter barely dares to breathe. Claude sniffs and fills the cup on the sink with water. He carries it and the pill bottle back to the couch, plopping down and presenting them to Peter. “Take two and call me in the morning, yeah?”
Peter risks a smile as he receives them. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. You wouldn’t believe the headaches I used to get, early on. Takes a lot of concentration, doin’ these impossible things we do. And you’ve been concentrating today, I’m glad to see.”
“So my reward is I get to not be in pain?”
“Oh, do you prefer your headache? Sorry, my mistake.” He reaches for the bottle and cup, but Peter holds them away, meeting Claude’s smirk with one of his own.
“No, no, that’s okay. I’ll take them. That’s...” He trails off, registering Claude’s nearness through the press of flesh-heated leather against his arm and side and sharp blue eyes not five inches from his. “Uh...”
The eyes blink, and the heat abandons him as Claude all but leaps to his feet. He’s at the window in two quick steps, hands stuffed in new pockets as he stares down into the clearly fascinating street. Peter has to suppress a bewildered laugh at the man’s completely transparent display. He hadn’t really thought- barely let himself hope... But this, all of this, is probably a really bad idea. He should just back off, before this gets too-
“Y’got a razor, Pete? One of those electric ones?”
Then again... “Yeah, I do.”
Claude’s wiping at his beard like that’ll somehow get it off. “Cheers.”
***
Peter’s not really sure what he thought was going to happen when the unsolicited and unnoticed makeover was complete. The sound of TARDIS engines to echo out of an alley and his newly minted Doctor to whisk him away to a place that isn’t here? No. Claude’s Claude, just with a change of wardrobe, a shave, and a haircut. So the scenery’s improved anyway, and Peter contents himself with that. And tries not to mind too much that Claude doesn’t seem to want to be within arm’s reach of him.
Which makes him all the more confused when Claude storms into his apartment one day, grabs him by the neck of his shirt, and pins him against the wall. “Uh, hi?”
“Hi,” the man snarls. His free hand rises, and Peter flinches before he can register that it’s not curled into a fist, it’s holding something. A DVD case, adorned with the dramatically posed figures of a young blonde woman and a man wearing a black leather jacket. A backdrop of unmistakable TARDIS doors lies behind them and a sharp orange Doctor Who logo before. “I bloody dare you to explain this, mate.”
All air momentarily leaves Peter’s body. He stares at the DVD case in preference to whatever murder is no doubt on Claude’s face. He wonders if he should feel at all optimistic that Claude’s still calling him mate. “I, uh... I...”
The hand clenching his shirt tightens, pressing Claude’s knuckles against Peter’s throat. “Go on, out with it.”
“I wanted... to see... if I could?”
The world goes stone still, and Peter glances at Claude in time to watch the man’s face crumple into uproarious laughter. The clenched hand shifts to Peter’s shoulder, supporting Claude as loud guffaws tumble out of him. Peter tries to stay very still. As the first gale abates, Claude manages a few words, always interrupted by new peals of laughter, “You bastard... you little... sodding... Can’t even... Because you damn well could... ought to kill you...”
“Uh, I’m sorry?”
“No. No, no.” Both hands land on his shoulders, the DVD case pinned against his collarbone. Claude’s face practically glows with amusement. “This is brilliant, Peter. You’ve never impressed me more.”
“Thanks?”
“Too right.” The last of the laughter drains away, but Claude doesn’t seem inclined to let go of Peter.
The empath wonders what it would take to get the hand not holding the DVD to slide up to his neck, or even his cheek. Since all his ideas seem to be working out so disturbingly well for the moment, he lets his own hands rise and curl around Claude’s wrists, underneath leather cuffs.
It’s too much, and Claude slips out of his grip as he steps back. “So, ah, this Doctor any good? Last one I saw on television was the fool in the rainbow-colored jacket.”
“Well, you’ve got the DVDs right there, why don’t we watch them?”
Claude’s customary storm clouds finally make their unwelcome reappearance. “Pete, we’ve better things to be doin’ than sitting on the couch all day watching a TV show.”
Peter rolls his eyes with a frown, “Yeah, well, who knows? I might be dead sometime soon, and I say there’s a lot more danger out there than what watching one season of Doctor Who can do to us.” He steps away from the wall, slowly but definitively breaching Claude’s personal space. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
Claude grants him a small smirk, “Suppose I should get a look at my doppelganger, then, since you put in all this effort.”
It’s enough to make Peter grin and lead Claude to the couch.
***
Peter feels he does quite well keeping quiet and not glancing over to gauge Claude’s reaction to the show. Too much. He can’t help a small thrill at every reaction he hears, though. All the small hums and amused snorts and even the odd, barely noticeable jumps at the scary parts. And then comes the last ten minutes of the last episode, when the Bad Wolf triumphs and the Time Vortex has to be tamed. Claude is silent throughout, as the credits roll and Peter stops the DVD.
“So?” he hazards, “Not bad, right?”
Claude’s reply is a meaningless, “Hm.”
Nervousness worms its way through Peter’s stomach, “Not the worst person in the world to look like, anyway.”
Claude’s eyebrows twitch up and he nods.
Peter gives in, “You’re killing me here, Claude! Did you like it or not?”
“Liked it fine,” he replies simply, “Happy to’ve seen it.”
“That’s it? After all that, you liked it fine?”
Claude’s gaze has been wandering around the room since the show ended. Now it falls on Peter, “I do look a helluva lot like him, don’t I?”
Peter blinks. Feels strangely embarrassed to look at Claude now, with his shorn hair and bare face. He looks... worn. With shadows under his cheekbones and lines across his forehead. Peter thinks a real Time Lord would look like that, like he’s lived every day of his long, long life. “Yeah.”
“There’s more to it than just looks, you might’ve guessed.”
Peter swallows. Doesn’t dare poke at the heavy darkness Claude carries. Some days he aches to discover what it is. Some days he thinks it might break him to know.
“I’d like to be more like him. Then I’d have a magic blue box could take me anywhere, help me defeat my enemies...” He tries then for an ironic smile, but it dies quickly and Peter’s heart squeezes. “I know you’re not stupid, mate. Know you know full well what a shithole the world is. How nothin’ works out like it does on television.”
“Claude...” Peter starts, without having a clue what the rest of his sentence is.
And with that unerring sense of what will make him most uncomfortable, Claude sits there, waiting for him to speak.
“I know you’re not... him,” he manages, “I wasn’t trying to do that. That’s not what I... what I want.”
Claude says nothing. Doesn’t have to, when his expression says “Oh really, you don’t say?” with more eloquence than the words themselves could ever hold.
Peter groans, “And now I just feel more stupid trying to talk to you than I usually do. Fantastic.” He has to look away, to see if any of the sputtering emotions he feels can be accurately translated. He’s about to give up in despair, try to distract them both with food or training or something, when he feels a gentle touch on his arm. He looks at Claude, hoping his eyes aren’t begging for his release from the obligation to talk.
“I mentioned enemies, earlier,” the man says, “Basically pointless to compete with the Doctor on that score, ain’t it?” He cracks a smile, which Peter is happy to return. “He’s going up against life-threatening danger at least once a week. Doesn’t matter much if it isn’t really real, at least not to him. He faces it head on, and sends it packing more often than not.”
Peter’s somewhat lost now, but can say with confidence, “Yeah, he does.”
“And... all that hasn’t made him afraid... of everything else. The bad and... and the good. Pretty much the opposite, really.”
Peter comes to the gradual realization that Claude’s hand hasn’t left his arm, but instead now wraps around it, fingers splaying up to his shoulder. Pulling, just barely. He says a quick prayer that he isn’t interpreting this all wrong, and shifts in his seat so he faces Claude. The man’s face is... like a Time Lord’s, when he’s discovered something new. Peter can’t resist reaching up and running a thumb along the curve of a smile line, letting his fingertips brush soft short strands of hair. His other hand finds the slope of Claude’s neck. He leans forward, and so does Claude- nearly sending their noses crashing together if not for a quick dodge and nervous laughs from both.
“Tell me this isn’t some elaborate plot to pretend you’re sleeping with the Doctor.”
Peter grins, “I promise. Anyway, haven’t you heard? He’s hard work.” In the moment Claude takes to relax a fraction and let out a tiny chuckle, Peter kisses him, soft and sweet and real. He ends it after a heartbeat and the moment demands to hang there, drenched in significance. Which of course means Peter has to say something like, “So? Not bad, right?”
Claude rolls his eyes with reluctant laughter, “Shut up, Peter.”
The empath shrugs, “Okay.” He wanted to be kissing Claude again anyway.