Fic: Settling Down (Part II)
Title: Settling Down
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Claude, Abby, Lee, Sarah, Peter
Word Count: 1732
Summary: Well, there's a wedding, and some people discuss things, and some people make out. In this bit, there is dancing.
Rating: PG13
A/N: Fluffy as hell bit of wish fulfillment. I have nothing else to say for myself.
The dancing hadn’t begun in earnest until later, though.
Well, it was rather charitable of him to call what occurred later dancing at all, really. He wasn’t sure whether it was the music or the abundance of alcohol that ranked higher in terms of causality, but the music was what was bothering him the most.
Loud, pulsing, erratic rhythms and apparently Lee’s grace was a genetic anomaly or a learned behavior, because inherited, it was not. Some of his relatives saw fit to break out moves that seemed designed to terrify children, and Claude had seen a fair bit of bad dancing in his life, but nothing quite at that level of relentless beatless gyration.
Peter seemed to find it amusing. Grinned as one by one individuals who were surely old enough to know better crowded onto a dance floor teeming with enthusiasm but severely lacking in anything close to talent, or spatial judgment.
“What the hell is that?” he said, nodding in the direction of two comically mismatched individuals he didn’t recognize.
“I…” Peter squinted, and then laughed. “Think they’re going for a foxtrot?”
He raised an eyebrow, and Peter shrugged. “My mom made me take a couple of lessons.”
“Any good?”
“Me, or the lessons?”
They weren’t mutually exclusive, and he was about to say so, before he got caught up looking at Peter, trying to picture him moving with any sense of agency that wasn’t tied to him having an actual task to accomplish.
He knew for sure that Peter wasn’t bad at following a rhythm, and was capable of moving his hips, at least, with both fluidity and strength. He was good at following someone’s lead, even better at guiding someone else into the movements he wanted. But he tended to achieve that with a well-placed flick of the tongue or hot, loaded words against Claude’s neck, neither of which were standard to any dance he could name. Or at least any he could imagine Angela Petrelli paying for her son to learn.
He realized Peter was looking particularly smug, which was never a good sign. “What?”
“You’ve got that look on your face,” Peter said.
“What look?”
Peter smirked and leaned closer, close enough to get his lips right under Claude’s ear and his hand about midway on Claude’s thigh. “The ‘let’s get out of here and fool around in the coatroom’ look.”
Claude ducked his head, and Peter followed. Pressed a quick kiss the side of Claude’s mouth, then turned his head to manage a firmer one. Pulled back, with a wonderfully expectant expression.
“Don’t think the place has got a coatroom, mate,” he said, and Peter grinned anyway.
“We’ll go with invisible, then.” And he could’ve protested, obviously. But between getting snogged senseless by Peter and being confronted by ghosts from a past he’d evaded for a very long time and very good reasons, there wasn’t exactly a choice to be made.
Peter eased onto his lap, one arm around the back of his neck and the other hand on Claude’s cheek. Once settled, as precarious as his position was, Peter began the full assault: fast, desperate kisses interspersed with long, languorous ones. He squirmed closer as Claude ran his hands up and down his back, and along the outside of his thigh.
The silk of the waistcoat he was wearing was indulgently smooth but somehow didn’t feel like Peter, who was at his best when clothed in the sturdy dark blue of his uniform or one of his time-smoothed t-shirts or nothing at all. But the sounds he made between the kisses, the breathless sighs and happy hums, the curve of his torso against Claude’s chest and the little shudders against his palms, those were undoubtedly Pete.
Just as undoubtedly, they were both getting worked up past the point of anything Peter would be willing to resolve in public, even considering the fact that no one could see them and that the music was still loud enough that they probably wouldn’t be heard. But he wasn’t going to pull away if Peter wasn’t, and Peter most definitely wasn’t, although his kisses did slow down. Softer, more indulgent, finishing with a sigh and a quick glance into his eyes before Peter would lean in again.
Until he didn’t. Just pressed the tip of his nose against the end of Claude’s. His smile was warmer and softer than his eyes, which might as well have been directed at frolicking kittens for all the hazy fondness in them.
“Dance with me,” he murmured, and Claude almost had to laugh. That’d explain it, the amorous force of nature Peter had suddenly turned into. Manipulative bastard, and the worst of it was, Claude still hadn’t said no. Peter seemed to realize that was well, and took the opportunity to nuzzle against him again. “C’mon. A slow song or two, it’ll be fun.”
“’Fun’,” he scoffed, because he was at a loss as to how to properly refuse. Peter had the grace not to smirk, but stood up. Unsteadily, for a moment, like his body was still working out just where to route his blood, but he held out a hand and Claude rolled his eyes as he took it and stood up.
He fully intended to let go of Peter’s hand once he was up. He’d indulge him when it came to the dancing, and the public displays of affection, and all the rest, but he absolutely refused to let himself be lead around like a puppy on a lead.
And that was all well and good, as far as plans went, but they were suddenly on the dance floor and his hand was still in Peter’s. He sighed, decided to resign himself to the situation, and yanked Peter toward him as abruptly as he could, because there was no reason he couldn’t enjoy the situation he’d resigned himself to at least a bit.
Peter barely stumbled at all, and didn’t even have the courtesy to frown at him as he murmured, “Bastard,” and rested his head against Claude’s shoulder.
Claude hesitated. Having Peter that close to him, that close to other people, that
obvious, felt strange. He struggled with the urge to take a step back, and nearly flinched at the feeling of Peter’s hands reaching for his.
Neither of them said anything. Peter didn’t even look up, and Claude shut his eyes and let his hands be guided, one to Peter’s waist, the other between their chests. The fingers of that hand were woven with Peter’s. Peter’s other hand settled around the back of Claude’s neck.
“And then you move,” Peter said, quietly, without even a hint of a smirk. Claude appreciated that enough to comply.
Nothing too fancy, nothing too ambitious, but he did move. Back, and forth, and, more cautiously, to the side. Peter kept close, body fluid and familiar against his, hair soft and smooth against Claude’s chin.
Eventually, Claude opened his eyes. Gave a quick glance around the room. No one appeared to be seeing them, not that he particularly cared. He watched another couple across the floor, whose heights and builds seemed approximate to his and Peter’s, for a few moments, through narrowed eyes.
He heard Peter clear his throat, and realized he’d stopped moving.
“Sorry,” he said, almost without thinking, and shifted to the side again. He felt Peter chuckle as he followed, and then nuzzle closer as Claude slide his hand from Peter’s waist to the small of his back. It was altogether too nice a moment for him not to try and interrupt it. “By the way, mate, you bloody well owe me for this.”
Peter snorted. “You’re just lucky I’m letting you lead,” he heard Peter murmur, and then, to add insult to injury, he heard himself laugh. The urge to say something biting should’ve welled up about then, but something else managed to tamp it down, and he’d grudgingly admit he was glad.
Because Peter was quietly, obviously thrilled at this. Casually matching every movement Claude made, each of the steadily more decisive steps he took, back and forth and left and right.
It took less and less concentration to keep it up, and Claude’s focus shifted again, this time to Lee and Abby, who were just barely swaying along to something slow and somehow familiar, if not actually recognizable.
She looked exhausted, and most likely half-asleep, with her arms around Lee’s neck and her head down, resting against his chest. Lee didn’t look especially awake either, but he seemed to feel Claude’s gaze and glanced over. Smiled, warmly, and nodded. Mouthed something he didn’t quite pick up, but he nodded in response anyway, and that seemed to suffice.
He felt the weight of Peter’s head against his neck lessen, and glanced down. Peter looked up at him, cheeks oddly flushed and eyes suddenly a whole lot sharper than they had any right to be. They made Claude especially aware of all the places where the radiated heat of Peter’s body could be felt across his skin.
“Claude.”
“Yeah?”
“I gotta tell you something.”
“Would it kill you not to, mate? Not sayin’ it’s a dealbreaker either way, just wonderin’.”
Peter smiled, just barely, and tilted his head up. Licked his lips. Let go of Claude’s hand, in order to wrap his arm around the back of Claude’s neck as well, before he spoke again.
“I really hate weddings.”
He felt his brow furrow. He must’ve misheard that, except he’d been watching Peter’s mouth very carefully and was fairly sure he hadn’t.
“Do you, then?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, pressing his forehead against Claude’s and letting out a hot breath. “Don’t mind wedding nights, though.”
“Had many of them, have you?”
“I just meant in theory. They seem like fun. More fun than weddings, with all that standing around and waiting. Love’s not supposed to be like that.”
This was dangerous territory, he knew that. But Peter was pressed tight against him, full of warmth and happiness and light, and there were worse places to tread.
“You tryin’ to tell me something, mate?”
“Mm,” Peter sighed, eyes shut. “Nope. Nothing. Not at all.”
“Right, then,” Claude said, smiling unconsciously, and wasn’t at all surprised when Peter tilted his head and brought their mouths together. “Good to know,” he murmured, once he was able, and he felt Peter smile.
*
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Claude, Abby, Lee, Sarah, Peter
Word Count: 1732
Summary: Well, there's a wedding, and some people discuss things, and some people make out. In this bit, there is dancing.
Rating: PG13
A/N: Fluffy as hell bit of wish fulfillment. I have nothing else to say for myself.
The dancing hadn’t begun in earnest until later, though.
Well, it was rather charitable of him to call what occurred later dancing at all, really. He wasn’t sure whether it was the music or the abundance of alcohol that ranked higher in terms of causality, but the music was what was bothering him the most.
Loud, pulsing, erratic rhythms and apparently Lee’s grace was a genetic anomaly or a learned behavior, because inherited, it was not. Some of his relatives saw fit to break out moves that seemed designed to terrify children, and Claude had seen a fair bit of bad dancing in his life, but nothing quite at that level of relentless beatless gyration.
Peter seemed to find it amusing. Grinned as one by one individuals who were surely old enough to know better crowded onto a dance floor teeming with enthusiasm but severely lacking in anything close to talent, or spatial judgment.
“What the hell is that?” he said, nodding in the direction of two comically mismatched individuals he didn’t recognize.
“I…” Peter squinted, and then laughed. “Think they’re going for a foxtrot?”
He raised an eyebrow, and Peter shrugged. “My mom made me take a couple of lessons.”
“Any good?”
“Me, or the lessons?”
They weren’t mutually exclusive, and he was about to say so, before he got caught up looking at Peter, trying to picture him moving with any sense of agency that wasn’t tied to him having an actual task to accomplish.
He knew for sure that Peter wasn’t bad at following a rhythm, and was capable of moving his hips, at least, with both fluidity and strength. He was good at following someone’s lead, even better at guiding someone else into the movements he wanted. But he tended to achieve that with a well-placed flick of the tongue or hot, loaded words against Claude’s neck, neither of which were standard to any dance he could name. Or at least any he could imagine Angela Petrelli paying for her son to learn.
He realized Peter was looking particularly smug, which was never a good sign. “What?”
“You’ve got that look on your face,” Peter said.
“What look?”
Peter smirked and leaned closer, close enough to get his lips right under Claude’s ear and his hand about midway on Claude’s thigh. “The ‘let’s get out of here and fool around in the coatroom’ look.”
Claude ducked his head, and Peter followed. Pressed a quick kiss the side of Claude’s mouth, then turned his head to manage a firmer one. Pulled back, with a wonderfully expectant expression.
“Don’t think the place has got a coatroom, mate,” he said, and Peter grinned anyway.
“We’ll go with invisible, then.” And he could’ve protested, obviously. But between getting snogged senseless by Peter and being confronted by ghosts from a past he’d evaded for a very long time and very good reasons, there wasn’t exactly a choice to be made.
Peter eased onto his lap, one arm around the back of his neck and the other hand on Claude’s cheek. Once settled, as precarious as his position was, Peter began the full assault: fast, desperate kisses interspersed with long, languorous ones. He squirmed closer as Claude ran his hands up and down his back, and along the outside of his thigh.
The silk of the waistcoat he was wearing was indulgently smooth but somehow didn’t feel like Peter, who was at his best when clothed in the sturdy dark blue of his uniform or one of his time-smoothed t-shirts or nothing at all. But the sounds he made between the kisses, the breathless sighs and happy hums, the curve of his torso against Claude’s chest and the little shudders against his palms, those were undoubtedly Pete.
Just as undoubtedly, they were both getting worked up past the point of anything Peter would be willing to resolve in public, even considering the fact that no one could see them and that the music was still loud enough that they probably wouldn’t be heard. But he wasn’t going to pull away if Peter wasn’t, and Peter most definitely wasn’t, although his kisses did slow down. Softer, more indulgent, finishing with a sigh and a quick glance into his eyes before Peter would lean in again.
Until he didn’t. Just pressed the tip of his nose against the end of Claude’s. His smile was warmer and softer than his eyes, which might as well have been directed at frolicking kittens for all the hazy fondness in them.
“Dance with me,” he murmured, and Claude almost had to laugh. That’d explain it, the amorous force of nature Peter had suddenly turned into. Manipulative bastard, and the worst of it was, Claude still hadn’t said no. Peter seemed to realize that was well, and took the opportunity to nuzzle against him again. “C’mon. A slow song or two, it’ll be fun.”
“’Fun’,” he scoffed, because he was at a loss as to how to properly refuse. Peter had the grace not to smirk, but stood up. Unsteadily, for a moment, like his body was still working out just where to route his blood, but he held out a hand and Claude rolled his eyes as he took it and stood up.
He fully intended to let go of Peter’s hand once he was up. He’d indulge him when it came to the dancing, and the public displays of affection, and all the rest, but he absolutely refused to let himself be lead around like a puppy on a lead.
And that was all well and good, as far as plans went, but they were suddenly on the dance floor and his hand was still in Peter’s. He sighed, decided to resign himself to the situation, and yanked Peter toward him as abruptly as he could, because there was no reason he couldn’t enjoy the situation he’d resigned himself to at least a bit.
Peter barely stumbled at all, and didn’t even have the courtesy to frown at him as he murmured, “Bastard,” and rested his head against Claude’s shoulder.
Claude hesitated. Having Peter that close to him, that close to other people, that
obvious, felt strange. He struggled with the urge to take a step back, and nearly flinched at the feeling of Peter’s hands reaching for his.
Neither of them said anything. Peter didn’t even look up, and Claude shut his eyes and let his hands be guided, one to Peter’s waist, the other between their chests. The fingers of that hand were woven with Peter’s. Peter’s other hand settled around the back of Claude’s neck.
“And then you move,” Peter said, quietly, without even a hint of a smirk. Claude appreciated that enough to comply.
Nothing too fancy, nothing too ambitious, but he did move. Back, and forth, and, more cautiously, to the side. Peter kept close, body fluid and familiar against his, hair soft and smooth against Claude’s chin.
Eventually, Claude opened his eyes. Gave a quick glance around the room. No one appeared to be seeing them, not that he particularly cared. He watched another couple across the floor, whose heights and builds seemed approximate to his and Peter’s, for a few moments, through narrowed eyes.
He heard Peter clear his throat, and realized he’d stopped moving.
“Sorry,” he said, almost without thinking, and shifted to the side again. He felt Peter chuckle as he followed, and then nuzzle closer as Claude slide his hand from Peter’s waist to the small of his back. It was altogether too nice a moment for him not to try and interrupt it. “By the way, mate, you bloody well owe me for this.”
Peter snorted. “You’re just lucky I’m letting you lead,” he heard Peter murmur, and then, to add insult to injury, he heard himself laugh. The urge to say something biting should’ve welled up about then, but something else managed to tamp it down, and he’d grudgingly admit he was glad.
Because Peter was quietly, obviously thrilled at this. Casually matching every movement Claude made, each of the steadily more decisive steps he took, back and forth and left and right.
It took less and less concentration to keep it up, and Claude’s focus shifted again, this time to Lee and Abby, who were just barely swaying along to something slow and somehow familiar, if not actually recognizable.
She looked exhausted, and most likely half-asleep, with her arms around Lee’s neck and her head down, resting against his chest. Lee didn’t look especially awake either, but he seemed to feel Claude’s gaze and glanced over. Smiled, warmly, and nodded. Mouthed something he didn’t quite pick up, but he nodded in response anyway, and that seemed to suffice.
He felt the weight of Peter’s head against his neck lessen, and glanced down. Peter looked up at him, cheeks oddly flushed and eyes suddenly a whole lot sharper than they had any right to be. They made Claude especially aware of all the places where the radiated heat of Peter’s body could be felt across his skin.
“Claude.”
“Yeah?”
“I gotta tell you something.”
“Would it kill you not to, mate? Not sayin’ it’s a dealbreaker either way, just wonderin’.”
Peter smiled, just barely, and tilted his head up. Licked his lips. Let go of Claude’s hand, in order to wrap his arm around the back of Claude’s neck as well, before he spoke again.
“I really hate weddings.”
He felt his brow furrow. He must’ve misheard that, except he’d been watching Peter’s mouth very carefully and was fairly sure he hadn’t.
“Do you, then?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, pressing his forehead against Claude’s and letting out a hot breath. “Don’t mind wedding nights, though.”
“Had many of them, have you?”
“I just meant in theory. They seem like fun. More fun than weddings, with all that standing around and waiting. Love’s not supposed to be like that.”
This was dangerous territory, he knew that. But Peter was pressed tight against him, full of warmth and happiness and light, and there were worse places to tread.
“You tryin’ to tell me something, mate?”
“Mm,” Peter sighed, eyes shut. “Nope. Nothing. Not at all.”
“Right, then,” Claude said, smiling unconsciously, and wasn’t at all surprised when Peter tilted his head and brought their mouths together. “Good to know,” he murmured, once he was able, and he felt Peter smile.
*