Fic: Hotel Room Service
Title: Hotel Room Service
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Pairings/Characters: Peter/Claire; Sylar/Claire; Peter/Claire/Sylar
Warnings: Incest
Word count: 2637
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: The motels change, the names change, but Claire still
remains confused when it comes to Peter and Sylar
You never thought it would be this way.
Wait, that’s a lie. You have thought it would be this way but
usually only when sufficiently exhausted and stranded in the latest
no-tell motel that one of them has paid for.
Tonight the motel is in Junction Bluff, Iowa, a place that has neither
a junction nor a bluff. The carpet is synthetic orange, the bedspread
paisley, and there is a Bible in the nightstand that you will not read
and would probably experience some form of burn if you touched it.
This time you’re in the motel room with Peter and Matt, whom you hate
sharing a room with because he snores like he’s taking down every tree
in Sequoia National Park.
You saw Sequoia National Park a few weeks ago; you hid in the brush
with Micah and struggled to stay still as Danko’s men swarmed past.
This motel has 2 double beds and, while Peter is subjected to the
symphonic range of Matt Parkman’s snores, you stretch your body across
the mattress as if it is the most luxurious bed you have ever slept
in. In the last motel, you had been forced to share a bed with both
Tracey and Molly; halfway through the night, you admitted defeat and
slept in an easy chair.
As you toss and turn, stretching your limbs the width of the bed,
moving your legs back and forth like you are running across the
sheets, you hear the telltale sound of Peter’s sigh. You watch in
silence as he pushes away from the mattress, rubbing his face with his
hands, the way you saw Nathan do.
Nathan is dead now. Sometimes you forget that; usually you don’t.
Though he denies it, you think that your father’s death has led to
Peter becoming more like his brother. Maybe it’s unconscious, the way
Peter mimics Nathan’s mannerisms now; you doubt it.
He has stubble on his cheeks; you like it, think it makes him look
dangerous (though that’s not the right word; you know what real danger
is now, and the dangerous you have characterized Peter is the kind
that starlets on the CW use to describe their love interests). He
also looks tired, as tired as you would look if you showed wear and
tear.
Last week he turned 30; you presented him with a doughnut you
purchased at a gas station and teasingly stole a finger full of
frosting.
When he turns to face you, you smile in acknowledgment; you know this
dance. A few years ago, the idea of this tango has been a fantasy
held tightly to your adolescent heart; of course, a few years ago you
had been able to be Claire Bennet out in the open.
Your identity this week is Ashley Larson; his, Jeremy Shepherd.
Silently you pad into the bathroom, turning on the shower, which has
actual water pressure; you strip in the florescent light, catching
glimpses of yourself in the cracked mirror above the sink. It is in
that mirror that you watch him enter behind you, closing the door,
pushing the button to keep Matt out (not that Matt will wake up; he
sleeps like the dead, like Nathan.)
You are already under the spray when he pushes aside the flimsy
curtain, the warmth of his body scorching your skin more than the
water. He works the bar of soap between his palms, working a rich
lather that he uses against your skin. This dance is familiar as
well; it is the performance before the show.
It occurs to you sometimes that this was always going to happen; it is
only the circumstances of your upbringing that made this wrong.
As his fingers part you, one finding its way into the space where you
are empty and aching for him, you wonder if he has bathed the brothers
you have never met, if they know what it’s like to have an uncle be
just an uncle.
* * *
Today the motel is in Chambersburg, Texas; you are Sookie Reynolds and
he is Sam Compton. Your paths crossed on the last run to the border
when you were helping Hiro and Suresh smuggled some children to
safety; Border Patrol had been attempting to arrest you when he had
appeared, telekinesis blazing, saving all of you.
The others don’t like him around and usually you don’t either; the
others say that he makes their skin crawl but it’s not his past
actions that disturb you.
Murder is no longer scary when you know there is so much worse
awaiting you if Danko gets you.
You split up; Hiro and Suresh teleport out while you and Sylar find
the motel. You are hundreds of miles from Odessa and the person you
once were, but there is something about the Lone Star State that makes
you shudder with loss.
Unlike Peter, who plays at propriety, Sylar rents a room with only a
king-sized bed. You have barely set down the bag you carry your life
in when he is upon you, mauling your mouth, tearing at your clothing,
leaving marks that are absorbed by your ability. When you are nude,
he tumbles you back onto the bed and, as you lie atop the bedspread,
he stares down at you, unbuttoning his shirt with a frustrating smirk
on his beautiful face.
“Tell me you missed me.”
You wish it were a lie when you comply.
He doesn’t waste time tonight; he enters you in one stroke, filling
you to the bursting point (if you had a bursting point, which you
don’t); he moves with a grace that he once used to stalk you but you
try not to think about that as you claw his back and moan his name.
It is fast this time; you are still quaking with pleasure when you
feel the warmth of his pleasure inside of you. He rolls off and you
lie side by side, breathing regulating faster than it would on normal
people.
He never pretends that you are normal people, not like Peter.
As he dozes beside you, you catalogue the similarities and differences
between your uncle and your enemy. They have the same build, the same
coloring, but where Peter is smooth, Sylar is covered in hair as dark
as the color you have dyed your own.
He hates the new color; he tells you constantly.
Later, when the first beams of morning light streamed in through the
dusty curtains, he reaches for you and whispers, “Claire,” against
your ear.
You straddle him and take him into you, rising and falling in a
languorous rhythm, your fingers entwined with his, sighing at the
feeling. Only with him do you have this, this lazy morning lovemaking
(and it’s lovemaking; you can’t lie to yourself when it’s like this),
and, as you shake and shiver through your orgasm, he tugs you down so
that he can kiss you gently.
“Gabriel,” you sigh against his mouth.
When you check out, you are Sookie Reynolds and he is Sam Compton.
* * *
You take the test in a motel in McCartney, Oregon; your toes are
curled up in revolt against the icy tile and your hand shakes as you
stare at the bright, pink positive sign. This is not what you
imagined.
None of this is what you imagined; that should go without saying.
You are Sarah Simon today; you checked into this room with Ando,
Suresh, and Matt, who are all eating pizza and watching an action
movie on the motel’s HBO while your world is crashing down around you.
When you can finally feel your legs again, you stand, tucking the
test into your bag and staring at yourself in the mirror, at the
flatness of your belly.
You don’t know if regeneration would stop an abortion from being
effective; you don’t know if that’s even what you want.
There is a pre-paid cell in your bag; you all carry them and dispose
of them weekly. The numbers are circulated via Micah, and you have to
dig to find this week’s list. When you locate his number, you are
barely able to keep your finger steady enough to dial. You curl up in
the bathtub as you wait for him to answer.
“I need you,” is your greeting and it is all you need to say.
He meets you at the diner across the street from the motel, a baseball
cap pulled low over his eyes, the way he had worn it the first time he
tried to murder you. There is a cup of coffee before him and an
untouched glass of raspberry iced tea in the seat opposite of his;
under different circumstances, you would be touched he remembered.
You set the test on the table between you and wait for the fallout
(because, of course, there will be fallout.)
“His or mine?” is all he offers.
“I don’t know.”
He nods as if he understands (and maybe he does but you sure as fuck
don’t.) “I’ll tell him.”
“What will you tell him?”
“The truth.”
You aren’t sure you even remember the truth anymore.
* * *
You are still in McCartney, Oregon, when they both come to you; they
rent an additional room and you find them together, Sylar appearing
inscrutable and Peter, bruised and swollen. Hating to see him hurt,
you touch his cheek gingerly, watching as the contusions are
reabsorbed.
You wish you could heal the pain in his eyes.
As you hug your knees to your chest from your perch on the bed, you
think about the relationships you have with the two men before you.
Peter has always been your friend; you talk to him about your
feelings, your fears, and your dreams. When you make love (and it has
never been anything but), it is satisfying but always shameful;
no one will ever accept the way your uncle makes you tremble.
You have never told Sylar anything of substance; you rarely talk at
all. But somehow that makes it even more intimate because you
don’t need the words with him. Even at his most psychotic,
Sylar has always been attuned to you in a way that no one (not even
Peter) has ever been. And while he is not always gentle with you,
always polite and considerate, it has never been a crime to crave him.
Maybe that’s the worst crime of all.
“So we have a situation,” Peter begins, using Nathan’s voice (and it
is almost as if you can see your father sitting there, making
pronouncements from the mount.)
You are still Sarah Simon; they are Max Guerin and Nick DeAngelo.
* * *
“The Situation” comes to fruition in Weedville, Pennsylvania, in a
tiny motel room where you labor for 19 hours under Suresh’s watchful
eye (because even if he is a geneticist, it’s the closest thing
you have to a doctor.)
You are Dana Price on the day your son comes screaming into the world,
a bundle of pink skin, black hair, and a scream that bordered on
furious. As Suresh sets him atop your chest, you search for any hint
of who supplied 50% of his DNA and find nothing but an indescribable
amount of love.
The others, who have been waiting patiently for the Situation’s
arrival (because everyone loves a baby, after all) all smile at the
baby and coo for his cuteness. When Peter holds him, you wait for him
to recognize whether or not the baby is his child; when Sylar cradles
him, you wonder if he feels some sort of paternal tug.
In the end, you decide that he is yours and yours alone; “the
Situation” becomes Nathaniel.
* * *
You are living in a 2-bedroom cottage in Baja with Nathaniel, who is
18-months-old and in constant motion. You are Clara now, a dirty
blonde who spends hours a day walking along the water with your son;
you are becoming someone again.
Nathaniel is napping on the couch as you make sandwiches for lunch; in
sleep, he still looks like the infant you stared at for hours just to
confirm he was really there. You keep waiting to see some hint of who
his father is, but his dark features could belong to either of her
lovers. Sometimes you think you’ll have to wait until his powers
manifest because, God knows, you will never be able to bring Peter in
for a DNA test.
When both Peter and Sylar appear at the door during dinner, you are
stunned and suddenly nervous; they have always known where you and
Nathaniel were, but you had asked them to leave you be. You invite
them in as Nathaniel dances around the small living room to the video
you had put on while you cleaned up the kitchen.
Sylar presses a kiss to your cheek; Peter goes straight to Nathaniel.
After Nathaniel is safely ensconced in his bed, his nightlight shining
with lullabies playing on his CD player, you nervously return to where
you left the two men in your life. You offer drinks but they both
decline.
You wonder if it’s too late to drink hemlock.
When they tell you that Danko is gone now, that it is safe again, you
heave a giant sigh of relief; you hug them both tightly and, as you’re
paying lip service to how you can’t wait to return home, Sylar tells
you to shut up.
“We’ve been talking,” Peter jumps in, quickly trying to repair the
damage of Sylar’s bluntness, “and we’ve made amends.”
“With?”
“Our situation. I know that I wasn’t the most…It was hard to find out
that you two were…” Peter waves his hand, unable to finish the
sentence; you wonder just how much he’s come to terms with everything.
“The point is,” Sylar cuts in, rolling his eyes, “danger’s gone. And
we want what we want.”
“And what do you want?”
There is a hunger in his eyes that still makes your heart skip a beat
and everything below the waist clench. “You.”
“And Nathaniel,” Peter jumps in. “He’s our son.”
“I’ve already said, I don’t know - “
“I don’t need a test to know what I feel for him,” Peter assures you,
“and as far as Sylar goes - “
“I think we can all admit that it’s probably better if there’s a
second male influence around.” Sylar smirks. “Besides, we can always
make more.”
“So, what, you want the three of us to be some kind of family?”
“Aren’t we already?” Peter counters.
You pace the length of the living room; you have made 3 passes when
Sylar steps into your path. You open your mouth to protest when he
kisses you with a tenderness that you have ached for since your exile
in Mexico. You are so caught up in the feel of his lips against yours
that it takes a moment to recognize that there is a second set of
hands on your hips, a second set of lips against your neck.
As they move you in tandem towards the bedroom, you never thought that
it would end this way.
Okay, that’s not true; you have imagined it this way a hundred times,
usually with a hand between your legs and a pillow between your lips
to keep from waking Nathaniel (or Matt or Hiro or Suresh because,
really, you’ve been picturing this since you were 16.)
* * *
You are in a penthouse apartment in Manhattan.
The man curled up behind you is Peter Petrelli.
The man caressing your front is Gabriel Gray.
One of these men (both of these men) are the father of your
son, who is Nathaniel Bennet.
You are Claire Bennet.
This is all you know and all you ever shall.
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Pairings/Characters: Peter/Claire; Sylar/Claire; Peter/Claire/Sylar
Warnings: Incest
Word count: 2637
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: The motels change, the names change, but Claire still
remains confused when it comes to Peter and Sylar
You never thought it would be this way.
Wait, that’s a lie. You have thought it would be this way but
usually only when sufficiently exhausted and stranded in the latest
no-tell motel that one of them has paid for.
Tonight the motel is in Junction Bluff, Iowa, a place that has neither
a junction nor a bluff. The carpet is synthetic orange, the bedspread
paisley, and there is a Bible in the nightstand that you will not read
and would probably experience some form of burn if you touched it.
This time you’re in the motel room with Peter and Matt, whom you hate
sharing a room with because he snores like he’s taking down every tree
in Sequoia National Park.
You saw Sequoia National Park a few weeks ago; you hid in the brush
with Micah and struggled to stay still as Danko’s men swarmed past.
This motel has 2 double beds and, while Peter is subjected to the
symphonic range of Matt Parkman’s snores, you stretch your body across
the mattress as if it is the most luxurious bed you have ever slept
in. In the last motel, you had been forced to share a bed with both
Tracey and Molly; halfway through the night, you admitted defeat and
slept in an easy chair.
As you toss and turn, stretching your limbs the width of the bed,
moving your legs back and forth like you are running across the
sheets, you hear the telltale sound of Peter’s sigh. You watch in
silence as he pushes away from the mattress, rubbing his face with his
hands, the way you saw Nathan do.
Nathan is dead now. Sometimes you forget that; usually you don’t.
Though he denies it, you think that your father’s death has led to
Peter becoming more like his brother. Maybe it’s unconscious, the way
Peter mimics Nathan’s mannerisms now; you doubt it.
He has stubble on his cheeks; you like it, think it makes him look
dangerous (though that’s not the right word; you know what real danger
is now, and the dangerous you have characterized Peter is the kind
that starlets on the CW use to describe their love interests). He
also looks tired, as tired as you would look if you showed wear and
tear.
Last week he turned 30; you presented him with a doughnut you
purchased at a gas station and teasingly stole a finger full of
frosting.
When he turns to face you, you smile in acknowledgment; you know this
dance. A few years ago, the idea of this tango has been a fantasy
held tightly to your adolescent heart; of course, a few years ago you
had been able to be Claire Bennet out in the open.
Your identity this week is Ashley Larson; his, Jeremy Shepherd.
Silently you pad into the bathroom, turning on the shower, which has
actual water pressure; you strip in the florescent light, catching
glimpses of yourself in the cracked mirror above the sink. It is in
that mirror that you watch him enter behind you, closing the door,
pushing the button to keep Matt out (not that Matt will wake up; he
sleeps like the dead, like Nathan.)
You are already under the spray when he pushes aside the flimsy
curtain, the warmth of his body scorching your skin more than the
water. He works the bar of soap between his palms, working a rich
lather that he uses against your skin. This dance is familiar as
well; it is the performance before the show.
It occurs to you sometimes that this was always going to happen; it is
only the circumstances of your upbringing that made this wrong.
As his fingers part you, one finding its way into the space where you
are empty and aching for him, you wonder if he has bathed the brothers
you have never met, if they know what it’s like to have an uncle be
just an uncle.
* * *
Today the motel is in Chambersburg, Texas; you are Sookie Reynolds and
he is Sam Compton. Your paths crossed on the last run to the border
when you were helping Hiro and Suresh smuggled some children to
safety; Border Patrol had been attempting to arrest you when he had
appeared, telekinesis blazing, saving all of you.
The others don’t like him around and usually you don’t either; the
others say that he makes their skin crawl but it’s not his past
actions that disturb you.
Murder is no longer scary when you know there is so much worse
awaiting you if Danko gets you.
You split up; Hiro and Suresh teleport out while you and Sylar find
the motel. You are hundreds of miles from Odessa and the person you
once were, but there is something about the Lone Star State that makes
you shudder with loss.
Unlike Peter, who plays at propriety, Sylar rents a room with only a
king-sized bed. You have barely set down the bag you carry your life
in when he is upon you, mauling your mouth, tearing at your clothing,
leaving marks that are absorbed by your ability. When you are nude,
he tumbles you back onto the bed and, as you lie atop the bedspread,
he stares down at you, unbuttoning his shirt with a frustrating smirk
on his beautiful face.
“Tell me you missed me.”
You wish it were a lie when you comply.
He doesn’t waste time tonight; he enters you in one stroke, filling
you to the bursting point (if you had a bursting point, which you
don’t); he moves with a grace that he once used to stalk you but you
try not to think about that as you claw his back and moan his name.
It is fast this time; you are still quaking with pleasure when you
feel the warmth of his pleasure inside of you. He rolls off and you
lie side by side, breathing regulating faster than it would on normal
people.
He never pretends that you are normal people, not like Peter.
As he dozes beside you, you catalogue the similarities and differences
between your uncle and your enemy. They have the same build, the same
coloring, but where Peter is smooth, Sylar is covered in hair as dark
as the color you have dyed your own.
He hates the new color; he tells you constantly.
Later, when the first beams of morning light streamed in through the
dusty curtains, he reaches for you and whispers, “Claire,” against
your ear.
You straddle him and take him into you, rising and falling in a
languorous rhythm, your fingers entwined with his, sighing at the
feeling. Only with him do you have this, this lazy morning lovemaking
(and it’s lovemaking; you can’t lie to yourself when it’s like this),
and, as you shake and shiver through your orgasm, he tugs you down so
that he can kiss you gently.
“Gabriel,” you sigh against his mouth.
When you check out, you are Sookie Reynolds and he is Sam Compton.
* * *
You take the test in a motel in McCartney, Oregon; your toes are
curled up in revolt against the icy tile and your hand shakes as you
stare at the bright, pink positive sign. This is not what you
imagined.
None of this is what you imagined; that should go without saying.
You are Sarah Simon today; you checked into this room with Ando,
Suresh, and Matt, who are all eating pizza and watching an action
movie on the motel’s HBO while your world is crashing down around you.
When you can finally feel your legs again, you stand, tucking the
test into your bag and staring at yourself in the mirror, at the
flatness of your belly.
You don’t know if regeneration would stop an abortion from being
effective; you don’t know if that’s even what you want.
There is a pre-paid cell in your bag; you all carry them and dispose
of them weekly. The numbers are circulated via Micah, and you have to
dig to find this week’s list. When you locate his number, you are
barely able to keep your finger steady enough to dial. You curl up in
the bathtub as you wait for him to answer.
“I need you,” is your greeting and it is all you need to say.
He meets you at the diner across the street from the motel, a baseball
cap pulled low over his eyes, the way he had worn it the first time he
tried to murder you. There is a cup of coffee before him and an
untouched glass of raspberry iced tea in the seat opposite of his;
under different circumstances, you would be touched he remembered.
You set the test on the table between you and wait for the fallout
(because, of course, there will be fallout.)
“His or mine?” is all he offers.
“I don’t know.”
He nods as if he understands (and maybe he does but you sure as fuck
don’t.) “I’ll tell him.”
“What will you tell him?”
“The truth.”
You aren’t sure you even remember the truth anymore.
* * *
You are still in McCartney, Oregon, when they both come to you; they
rent an additional room and you find them together, Sylar appearing
inscrutable and Peter, bruised and swollen. Hating to see him hurt,
you touch his cheek gingerly, watching as the contusions are
reabsorbed.
You wish you could heal the pain in his eyes.
As you hug your knees to your chest from your perch on the bed, you
think about the relationships you have with the two men before you.
Peter has always been your friend; you talk to him about your
feelings, your fears, and your dreams. When you make love (and it has
never been anything but), it is satisfying but always shameful;
no one will ever accept the way your uncle makes you tremble.
You have never told Sylar anything of substance; you rarely talk at
all. But somehow that makes it even more intimate because you
don’t need the words with him. Even at his most psychotic,
Sylar has always been attuned to you in a way that no one (not even
Peter) has ever been. And while he is not always gentle with you,
always polite and considerate, it has never been a crime to crave him.
Maybe that’s the worst crime of all.
“So we have a situation,” Peter begins, using Nathan’s voice (and it
is almost as if you can see your father sitting there, making
pronouncements from the mount.)
You are still Sarah Simon; they are Max Guerin and Nick DeAngelo.
* * *
“The Situation” comes to fruition in Weedville, Pennsylvania, in a
tiny motel room where you labor for 19 hours under Suresh’s watchful
eye (because even if he is a geneticist, it’s the closest thing
you have to a doctor.)
You are Dana Price on the day your son comes screaming into the world,
a bundle of pink skin, black hair, and a scream that bordered on
furious. As Suresh sets him atop your chest, you search for any hint
of who supplied 50% of his DNA and find nothing but an indescribable
amount of love.
The others, who have been waiting patiently for the Situation’s
arrival (because everyone loves a baby, after all) all smile at the
baby and coo for his cuteness. When Peter holds him, you wait for him
to recognize whether or not the baby is his child; when Sylar cradles
him, you wonder if he feels some sort of paternal tug.
In the end, you decide that he is yours and yours alone; “the
Situation” becomes Nathaniel.
* * *
You are living in a 2-bedroom cottage in Baja with Nathaniel, who is
18-months-old and in constant motion. You are Clara now, a dirty
blonde who spends hours a day walking along the water with your son;
you are becoming someone again.
Nathaniel is napping on the couch as you make sandwiches for lunch; in
sleep, he still looks like the infant you stared at for hours just to
confirm he was really there. You keep waiting to see some hint of who
his father is, but his dark features could belong to either of her
lovers. Sometimes you think you’ll have to wait until his powers
manifest because, God knows, you will never be able to bring Peter in
for a DNA test.
When both Peter and Sylar appear at the door during dinner, you are
stunned and suddenly nervous; they have always known where you and
Nathaniel were, but you had asked them to leave you be. You invite
them in as Nathaniel dances around the small living room to the video
you had put on while you cleaned up the kitchen.
Sylar presses a kiss to your cheek; Peter goes straight to Nathaniel.
After Nathaniel is safely ensconced in his bed, his nightlight shining
with lullabies playing on his CD player, you nervously return to where
you left the two men in your life. You offer drinks but they both
decline.
You wonder if it’s too late to drink hemlock.
When they tell you that Danko is gone now, that it is safe again, you
heave a giant sigh of relief; you hug them both tightly and, as you’re
paying lip service to how you can’t wait to return home, Sylar tells
you to shut up.
“We’ve been talking,” Peter jumps in, quickly trying to repair the
damage of Sylar’s bluntness, “and we’ve made amends.”
“With?”
“Our situation. I know that I wasn’t the most…It was hard to find out
that you two were…” Peter waves his hand, unable to finish the
sentence; you wonder just how much he’s come to terms with everything.
“The point is,” Sylar cuts in, rolling his eyes, “danger’s gone. And
we want what we want.”
“And what do you want?”
There is a hunger in his eyes that still makes your heart skip a beat
and everything below the waist clench. “You.”
“And Nathaniel,” Peter jumps in. “He’s our son.”
“I’ve already said, I don’t know - “
“I don’t need a test to know what I feel for him,” Peter assures you,
“and as far as Sylar goes - “
“I think we can all admit that it’s probably better if there’s a
second male influence around.” Sylar smirks. “Besides, we can always
make more.”
“So, what, you want the three of us to be some kind of family?”
“Aren’t we already?” Peter counters.
You pace the length of the living room; you have made 3 passes when
Sylar steps into your path. You open your mouth to protest when he
kisses you with a tenderness that you have ached for since your exile
in Mexico. You are so caught up in the feel of his lips against yours
that it takes a moment to recognize that there is a second set of
hands on your hips, a second set of lips against your neck.
As they move you in tandem towards the bedroom, you never thought that
it would end this way.
Okay, that’s not true; you have imagined it this way a hundred times,
usually with a hand between your legs and a pillow between your lips
to keep from waking Nathaniel (or Matt or Hiro or Suresh because,
really, you’ve been picturing this since you were 16.)
* * *
You are in a penthouse apartment in Manhattan.
The man curled up behind you is Peter Petrelli.
The man caressing your front is Gabriel Gray.
One of these men (both of these men) are the father of your
son, who is Nathaniel Bennet.
You are Claire Bennet.
This is all you know and all you ever shall.