A collection of drabbles
A few "Heroes" drabbles due to the Almost Totally Random Pairing Generator; I definitely recommend it!
Spoilers through 1.23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man"; specifically 1.19 ".07%," 1.20 "Five Years Gone" and 1.23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man"
Eden/Nathan -- spend the night
The room smells heady, like sex and lies, and the steam floating in from the shower running hot in the bathroom only magnifies the smell.
She lays naked atop the mussed green bedspread and smokes a cigarette while she ponders the night -- drink, smiles, flirts, sex and screams -- she got what she wanted (just like she always does).
He walks into the room, freshly dressed and smelling piney and warm; he smells like polished lies and unwanted sex.
“Thanks for everything.” The tone is brisk and professional, a carefully crafted veneer from years in the public spotlight, and ten seconds pass before a hiss and click signal a closed door and a closed night.
She wants to ask him to stay, to compel him, but she never can; sex is fine and easy, like money or drugs, but she never forces intimacy (the real kind). She never asks them to spend the night.
Mohinder/Niki -- remember to breathe
Your children are gone, and she lost Peter (you watched him die) just like you lost Nathan (maybe you never had him), and when you run into her years after the second explosion and your hair is more riddled with gray and she still looks the same, it’s only natural.
You fall into bed. You ask few questions and she asks even less. It’s simple and painless. You cover old wounds with fucking and screams. She likes it rough, and you like to forget; you make a pair, fucked up and alone (it doesn’t matter that you are together).
It’s only after the screams cease to echo off the walls and the breathing has calmed down to steady breaths that the air is like liquid -- thick and toxic -- you’re drowning in everything you can’t forget anymore, and she is hurting, her soul melting away from the inside out, and you want to say all you need to do to live is breathe, but you can’t even remember how to do that anymore.
So you make a pair, dead and alive, breathing the water of your past (of your guilt and shame), and only when you're making her scream do the breaths come easy -- choked lungfuls of sweet air -- but it’s only temporary because you can’t go on like this forever. One day you’ll forget to breathe (it’s the only thing keeping you alive, you know).
You’ll drown in the past while she keeps on burning up in the present.
Claire/Nathan -- home baked muffins
She misses home, her dad, her brother, her mother, the kitchen where they always gathered, which is maybe why she invaded the oversized, overstocked, impersonal Petrelli kitchen and pulled out flour, sugar and eggs and started to bake.
Two hours later she has three dozen muffins cooling and homemade frosting nearly finished when Nathan walks into the room. He stands with his hands shoved in his pockets; he’s out of place there, just like he is in her life. “Hi, Claire. My mother said you were baking.”
“She’s right.” She runs her finger along the edge of the bowl and tastes the icing. “You wanna try some?” She holds out her finger still coated with icing -- it’s a test; every time she’s tried to bond, he pulls away. She expects nothing less this time.
He takes four steps forward, cups her one hand in both of his and licks the frosting away from her finger. “It’s good.”
“Thanks, it’s my mother’s receipt,” she says, just a hint of a shake to her voice before she turns and starts frosting the cupcakes.
“You miss them. Your family.” She focuses on the cupcakes, pastel wrappers and golden brown tops; it’s harder than she thought to hear the words aloud. “I’m sorry.”
She looks up, tears misting her eyes, and his almond circles stare back, the political veneer gone and all that’s left is sincerity and longing. She holds out a cupcake doused in white frosting -- a peace offering.
He takes it, eats it slowly, and she gathers her thoughts, her emotions and replays the last thirty seconds in her mind and just when he finishes, opening his mouth to say something more, she pounces.
Her lips meet his in a rushed movement; his lips are warm and giving, and it’s not long before his tongue pushes gently against hers -- the cupcake she gave him still coating his tongue. She pushes back for a moment, stubble burning her smooth face and it’s all so wrong but she feels something, which is so much more than the nothing that has eaten her whole.
He pulls away first, blushing and stammering, making excuses even as he beats a hasty retreat from the kitchen; he leaves her alone with a myriad of feelings and a stinking realization: he tastes like home.
Claire/Bennet -- no touch
Between the two of them, no touch is a good touch. His hand on her back, his lips on her forehead, hers on his cheek and her arms around his waist -- they’re not good, innocent touches -- to the world, yes, to them, never.
He lies to her mother (It’s all right, Sandra. She’s our daughter, I love her very much), to her brother (I’ll be down in a minute, Lyle), to the world (I’m sorry, officer. I promise, it won’t happen again). She lets him because she can’t stop; she needs it just as much.
They tried once, not long after it started, not long after the world went crazy; no touch: it was their policy. Smiles and laughs, no problem; a causal brush after dinner doing the dishes or an innocent punch to the shoulder -- they were never that, they were always something more.
It didn’t last long; it lasted just long enough for them to end up on his bed while the rest of the family was out and her breathless cries shaking a room where the world might believe she had been made.
They push boundaries; it’s against the law but not nature, and every day that something happens, a brush, a hug, a kiss, something more, it’s one step farther down -- they’re one step closer to hell, where they’ll burn up -- hands on skin and crying out for more as the flames wash them away.
Feedback is love!
Spoilers through 1.23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man"; specifically 1.19 ".07%," 1.20 "Five Years Gone" and 1.23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man"
Eden/Nathan -- spend the night
The room smells heady, like sex and lies, and the steam floating in from the shower running hot in the bathroom only magnifies the smell.
She lays naked atop the mussed green bedspread and smokes a cigarette while she ponders the night -- drink, smiles, flirts, sex and screams -- she got what she wanted (just like she always does).
He walks into the room, freshly dressed and smelling piney and warm; he smells like polished lies and unwanted sex.
“Thanks for everything.” The tone is brisk and professional, a carefully crafted veneer from years in the public spotlight, and ten seconds pass before a hiss and click signal a closed door and a closed night.
She wants to ask him to stay, to compel him, but she never can; sex is fine and easy, like money or drugs, but she never forces intimacy (the real kind). She never asks them to spend the night.
Mohinder/Niki -- remember to breathe
Your children are gone, and she lost Peter (you watched him die) just like you lost Nathan (maybe you never had him), and when you run into her years after the second explosion and your hair is more riddled with gray and she still looks the same, it’s only natural.
You fall into bed. You ask few questions and she asks even less. It’s simple and painless. You cover old wounds with fucking and screams. She likes it rough, and you like to forget; you make a pair, fucked up and alone (it doesn’t matter that you are together).
It’s only after the screams cease to echo off the walls and the breathing has calmed down to steady breaths that the air is like liquid -- thick and toxic -- you’re drowning in everything you can’t forget anymore, and she is hurting, her soul melting away from the inside out, and you want to say all you need to do to live is breathe, but you can’t even remember how to do that anymore.
So you make a pair, dead and alive, breathing the water of your past (of your guilt and shame), and only when you're making her scream do the breaths come easy -- choked lungfuls of sweet air -- but it’s only temporary because you can’t go on like this forever. One day you’ll forget to breathe (it’s the only thing keeping you alive, you know).
You’ll drown in the past while she keeps on burning up in the present.
Claire/Nathan -- home baked muffins
She misses home, her dad, her brother, her mother, the kitchen where they always gathered, which is maybe why she invaded the oversized, overstocked, impersonal Petrelli kitchen and pulled out flour, sugar and eggs and started to bake.
Two hours later she has three dozen muffins cooling and homemade frosting nearly finished when Nathan walks into the room. He stands with his hands shoved in his pockets; he’s out of place there, just like he is in her life. “Hi, Claire. My mother said you were baking.”
“She’s right.” She runs her finger along the edge of the bowl and tastes the icing. “You wanna try some?” She holds out her finger still coated with icing -- it’s a test; every time she’s tried to bond, he pulls away. She expects nothing less this time.
He takes four steps forward, cups her one hand in both of his and licks the frosting away from her finger. “It’s good.”
“Thanks, it’s my mother’s receipt,” she says, just a hint of a shake to her voice before she turns and starts frosting the cupcakes.
“You miss them. Your family.” She focuses on the cupcakes, pastel wrappers and golden brown tops; it’s harder than she thought to hear the words aloud. “I’m sorry.”
She looks up, tears misting her eyes, and his almond circles stare back, the political veneer gone and all that’s left is sincerity and longing. She holds out a cupcake doused in white frosting -- a peace offering.
He takes it, eats it slowly, and she gathers her thoughts, her emotions and replays the last thirty seconds in her mind and just when he finishes, opening his mouth to say something more, she pounces.
Her lips meet his in a rushed movement; his lips are warm and giving, and it’s not long before his tongue pushes gently against hers -- the cupcake she gave him still coating his tongue. She pushes back for a moment, stubble burning her smooth face and it’s all so wrong but she feels something, which is so much more than the nothing that has eaten her whole.
He pulls away first, blushing and stammering, making excuses even as he beats a hasty retreat from the kitchen; he leaves her alone with a myriad of feelings and a stinking realization: he tastes like home.
Claire/Bennet -- no touch
Between the two of them, no touch is a good touch. His hand on her back, his lips on her forehead, hers on his cheek and her arms around his waist -- they’re not good, innocent touches -- to the world, yes, to them, never.
He lies to her mother (It’s all right, Sandra. She’s our daughter, I love her very much), to her brother (I’ll be down in a minute, Lyle), to the world (I’m sorry, officer. I promise, it won’t happen again). She lets him because she can’t stop; she needs it just as much.
They tried once, not long after it started, not long after the world went crazy; no touch: it was their policy. Smiles and laughs, no problem; a causal brush after dinner doing the dishes or an innocent punch to the shoulder -- they were never that, they were always something more.
It didn’t last long; it lasted just long enough for them to end up on his bed while the rest of the family was out and her breathless cries shaking a room where the world might believe she had been made.
They push boundaries; it’s against the law but not nature, and every day that something happens, a brush, a hug, a kiss, something more, it’s one step farther down -- they’re one step closer to hell, where they’ll burn up -- hands on skin and crying out for more as the flames wash them away.
Feedback is love!