Fic: Brunch, or Things Claude's Not Allowed to Do at Angela's
Rating: PG
Word Count: 949
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: Again for visiblemarket's prompt: "Sunday Brunch. Because you know the Petrellis don't kid around about Sunday Brunch."
Summary: Peter goes to Angela's for Sunday brunch. So does Claude, in a manner of speaking.
It hurts to think about it, but if Nathan were alive, Peter probably wouldn’t bother with Sunday Brunch anymore. But it’s just the two of them now, him and his mother. And Peter simply isn’t interested in making Angela his enemy. He leaves the sarcastic quips to Claude as he heads for the door.
“You could come along,” he tries one last time, “Deliver these gems to Ma’s face.”
“Much as I’d like to see her reaction to hearin’ about me, I’ll pass.”
“Okay, I’ll see you around noon then.”
A hand catches his wrist, tugging him back, “Hang on.”
“Yeah, Cl-?” Peter’s interrupted by a firm kiss pressed to his mouth. He smiles into it, bringing his hand up to Claude’s neck to keep him close. He’s far too distracted to notice the amber flash between them.
Claude pulls back, “Have a good time, then.”
“Sure.”
***
Peter’s glad they’re having crepes. It’s an excuse not to talk as he carefully spreads cream cheese over the golden brown surface, then drags over a small bowl of chopped strawberries and sprinkles a generous portion on top. He glances up at Angela and back down, “The strawberries look good.”
“Yes, I got them from a local market. They’re doing amazing things with urban farming these days.”
“Yeah, I think I read an article about that.”
Silence falls. Peter rolls his crepe up into a loose tube and picks it up. It almost makes it to his mouth when two things catch his eye. One is his mother’s disapproving gaze. The other is Claude standing directly behind her, watching Peter. His gaze is mildly interested.
Peter puts the crepe back down on the plate very carefully. In his peripheral vision, Claude meanders out from behind Angela’s chair to perch on the table itself. Peter is momentarily impressed by his ability to do this without disturbing so much as a grain of sugar. You really would have to see him to know he was there, as Angela clearly does not.
“Peter?”
He blinks, “Uh, sorry?”
Angela smiles, “Daydreaming again?”
He tries for a laugh, “I guess. What’d you say?”
“I was just wondering how things were going at the hospital.”
“Fine. It’s...” Claude reaches across the table and plucks a strawberry piece from the bowl. He pops it in his mouth with a wink. “Busy! Uh, you know, it’s always busy.”
“Mm. Not too stressful, I hope?”
Claude rolls his eyes and scowls. He stands and strolls back to his place behind Angela’s chair. From this position he can more easily direct a “Can you believe this woman?” expression at Peter complete with two fingers pointing at Angela’s temples.
Peter stares at his mother like his life depends on it, “You get used to it.”
Angela blinks and looks away, “All that pain and violence, I’d hope you wouldn’t get used to it.”
Another eye-roll as Claude’s disgusted expression deepens. It’s when it turns contemplative that Peter really starts to worry. But the only thing he can do is pick up his knife and fork and cut a sliver off his crepe. If he’s going to die he might as well eat first.
Angela thankfully runs out of criticism while Claude wanders around the room, poking at a vase of flowers here, inspecting a cabinet for dust there. Peter does his very best to focus on his food, but he can feel Angela noticing every flicker of his eyes.
“Is something on your mind?” she asks, all innocence.
Peter sees Claude grin and hook a thumb at himself. “Nothing important,” Peter replies pointedly. Claude pushes out his lower lip in a comical pout. Peter refocuses on his food, which means he almost jumps out of his seat at the brush of fingertips on his neck.
Angela frowns, “Peter, are you sure you’re all right?”
He scratches his neck and glares at Claude’s back, which somehow manages to radiate smugness before he turns back around. “I’m fine, Ma. I just... I thought there was a fly.”
“A fly?” Both Angela and Claude wear expressions of disbelief, though hers implies “A fly, in here?” while his is more “That’s the best you could do?”
“Yeah, you- you didn’t see... Well, I guess it was nothing.”
Angela sighs, expression turning pitying, “I worry about you, Peter. On your own, working a job that would be difficult for anyone to put up with.”
“I do okay. Better than... I do okay.” Fear pricks him, and how sad is that? He’s afraid of his own mother. What she might take it into her head to do.
“You don’t have to be defensive,” Angela presses, “You should just be aware that you have options, that’s all.”
Peter can feel himself bristling. Then two palms land on his shoulders and give a gentle squeeze. He takes a breath. “I know, Ma. This is what I want to be doing right now. Understand?”
She smiles, and it’s almost free of all censure. “Well, you would know best.”
The hands stay put for the rest of brunch, except when they’re reaching out to pluck another piece of strawberry from the bowl.
Finally Peter says his goodbyes and Claude walks through the door ahead of him. Down on the street, he turns invisible as well, and fixes Claude with a look he hopes is as much annoyed as it is amused. “Cute.”
Claude gives a modest shrug, “Thought you could do with some entertainment.”
“You weren’t wrong,” Peter concedes.
Claude smiles, then steps close to sling an arm across Peter’s shoulders, pulling him in tight, “Come on, mate, you survived. We’ll celebrate.”
Peter finds himself chuckling, “How?”
“Dunno. Let’s go find out.”
Word Count: 949
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: Again for visiblemarket's prompt: "Sunday Brunch. Because you know the Petrellis don't kid around about Sunday Brunch."
Summary: Peter goes to Angela's for Sunday brunch. So does Claude, in a manner of speaking.
It hurts to think about it, but if Nathan were alive, Peter probably wouldn’t bother with Sunday Brunch anymore. But it’s just the two of them now, him and his mother. And Peter simply isn’t interested in making Angela his enemy. He leaves the sarcastic quips to Claude as he heads for the door.
“You could come along,” he tries one last time, “Deliver these gems to Ma’s face.”
“Much as I’d like to see her reaction to hearin’ about me, I’ll pass.”
“Okay, I’ll see you around noon then.”
A hand catches his wrist, tugging him back, “Hang on.”
“Yeah, Cl-?” Peter’s interrupted by a firm kiss pressed to his mouth. He smiles into it, bringing his hand up to Claude’s neck to keep him close. He’s far too distracted to notice the amber flash between them.
Claude pulls back, “Have a good time, then.”
“Sure.”
***
Peter’s glad they’re having crepes. It’s an excuse not to talk as he carefully spreads cream cheese over the golden brown surface, then drags over a small bowl of chopped strawberries and sprinkles a generous portion on top. He glances up at Angela and back down, “The strawberries look good.”
“Yes, I got them from a local market. They’re doing amazing things with urban farming these days.”
“Yeah, I think I read an article about that.”
Silence falls. Peter rolls his crepe up into a loose tube and picks it up. It almost makes it to his mouth when two things catch his eye. One is his mother’s disapproving gaze. The other is Claude standing directly behind her, watching Peter. His gaze is mildly interested.
Peter puts the crepe back down on the plate very carefully. In his peripheral vision, Claude meanders out from behind Angela’s chair to perch on the table itself. Peter is momentarily impressed by his ability to do this without disturbing so much as a grain of sugar. You really would have to see him to know he was there, as Angela clearly does not.
“Peter?”
He blinks, “Uh, sorry?”
Angela smiles, “Daydreaming again?”
He tries for a laugh, “I guess. What’d you say?”
“I was just wondering how things were going at the hospital.”
“Fine. It’s...” Claude reaches across the table and plucks a strawberry piece from the bowl. He pops it in his mouth with a wink. “Busy! Uh, you know, it’s always busy.”
“Mm. Not too stressful, I hope?”
Claude rolls his eyes and scowls. He stands and strolls back to his place behind Angela’s chair. From this position he can more easily direct a “Can you believe this woman?” expression at Peter complete with two fingers pointing at Angela’s temples.
Peter stares at his mother like his life depends on it, “You get used to it.”
Angela blinks and looks away, “All that pain and violence, I’d hope you wouldn’t get used to it.”
Another eye-roll as Claude’s disgusted expression deepens. It’s when it turns contemplative that Peter really starts to worry. But the only thing he can do is pick up his knife and fork and cut a sliver off his crepe. If he’s going to die he might as well eat first.
Angela thankfully runs out of criticism while Claude wanders around the room, poking at a vase of flowers here, inspecting a cabinet for dust there. Peter does his very best to focus on his food, but he can feel Angela noticing every flicker of his eyes.
“Is something on your mind?” she asks, all innocence.
Peter sees Claude grin and hook a thumb at himself. “Nothing important,” Peter replies pointedly. Claude pushes out his lower lip in a comical pout. Peter refocuses on his food, which means he almost jumps out of his seat at the brush of fingertips on his neck.
Angela frowns, “Peter, are you sure you’re all right?”
He scratches his neck and glares at Claude’s back, which somehow manages to radiate smugness before he turns back around. “I’m fine, Ma. I just... I thought there was a fly.”
“A fly?” Both Angela and Claude wear expressions of disbelief, though hers implies “A fly, in here?” while his is more “That’s the best you could do?”
“Yeah, you- you didn’t see... Well, I guess it was nothing.”
Angela sighs, expression turning pitying, “I worry about you, Peter. On your own, working a job that would be difficult for anyone to put up with.”
“I do okay. Better than... I do okay.” Fear pricks him, and how sad is that? He’s afraid of his own mother. What she might take it into her head to do.
“You don’t have to be defensive,” Angela presses, “You should just be aware that you have options, that’s all.”
Peter can feel himself bristling. Then two palms land on his shoulders and give a gentle squeeze. He takes a breath. “I know, Ma. This is what I want to be doing right now. Understand?”
She smiles, and it’s almost free of all censure. “Well, you would know best.”
The hands stay put for the rest of brunch, except when they’re reaching out to pluck another piece of strawberry from the bowl.
Finally Peter says his goodbyes and Claude walks through the door ahead of him. Down on the street, he turns invisible as well, and fixes Claude with a look he hopes is as much annoyed as it is amused. “Cute.”
Claude gives a modest shrug, “Thought you could do with some entertainment.”
“You weren’t wrong,” Peter concedes.
Claude smiles, then steps close to sling an arm across Peter’s shoulders, pulling him in tight, “Come on, mate, you survived. We’ll celebrate.”
Peter finds himself chuckling, “How?”
“Dunno. Let’s go find out.”