fic: So Much for Bloody Independence
Title: So Much for Bloody Independence
Fandom: Heroes, Heroes Reborn
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Petrelli/Claude Rains.
Warnings: Vague descriptions of sex
Word Count: 2401
A/N: Based entirely on the Heroes Reborn supplemental novel, Save the Cheerleader, Destroy the World, which you can buy for $2.51 and FREAK OUT about the mentions of Peter and Claude canonically living on a Love Barge off the coast of Western Europe, or you can read my very accurate but somewhat biased write-up of the same, for free.
Either way, without that info, this will probably make very little sense to you, but on the other hand, idk, maybe.
Summary:
“Hey,” Peter calls out, standing up as the boat sputters to a stop. "Need a lift?"
"That depends, mate. What'll it cost me?"
"Well," Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would say your honor, but you don't exactly have much to spare, huh?"
Claude's lips thin before he swings his bag, then himself, down onto the boat. "Guess we'll have to figure something else out."
Peter rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes and wishes, not for the first time that day, probably not for the last, that he could just go back to bed already. Not that he’ll actually get any sleep, but at least he wouldn’t have to listen to the risk/reward analysis of refueling now, when they were out of place enough to be noticed, or hoping that they’d have enough to get them somewhere busy enough where they’d blend in. The Captain of the barge has made her points a thousand times before, and Mohinder’s opinions are just as well known. They’re both right, as always, and Peter is, as always, supposed to be the ultimate arbitrator. At some point, he’s given up actually weighing the options that always come out exactly even, and just started alternating; the problem is, he doesn’t remember who he sided with last time.
He sighs, and he wishes for a momentary distraction. He gets one, in the form a whip-thin re-head named Henry knocking on the door to the Captain’s office to remind her that he’s going to need use of one of the boats.
Apparently she needs the reminder: “Why?”
“Wolf Epsilon called for a pick up.”
Peter’s head snaps up. “What?"
“Peter-“ Mohinder says, and Peter shakes him off, walking over to Henry.
“By Aberdaron,” Henry says, looking confused. "An hour from now."
“Evac?"
“No, just a pick-up. Says he’s got perishables, so we're supposed to bring a cooler."
“What kind of perishables?"
"I didn't take the call, sir."
Peter winces instinctively at the sir but presses on. "Who did?"
"Kara, I think?"
“Where is she?"
"On her break."
Peter pushes at him and heads toward the galley. He turns back. “Don’t leave without me, okay?"
“Sir?"
“I’m coming for the pickup. So don’t leave without me."
*
About forty minutes later, they’re on their way, after Peter had spent an awkward ten of them questioning Kara, who's unfortunately one of the kids who still gets somewhat starstruck when they see him in person. She had confirmed the call-sign though, and the request for the cooler, and the fact that Peter was apparently not to be informed about any of it.
And so here he is, riding a motorboat through choppy grey waters, scanning the coming shoreline for a familiar shape. He spots it quicker than he expects, quicker than he’s ready for, really. “There!” he calls back, to Henry, who nods and steers the boat toward the tall, striking figure on the shore.
He looks better than when he left: clean-shaven, for a change, with a recent haircut, and a sturdy green sweater that Peter hasn’t seen before. His well-worn canvas duffle’s at his feet, looking somewhat lumpier than usual.
“Hey,” Peter calls out, standing up as the boat sputters to a stop. "Need a lift?"
"That depends, mate. What'll it cost me?"
"Well," Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would say your honor, but you don't exactly have much to spare, huh?"
Claude's lips thin before he swings his bag, then himself, down onto the boat. "Guess we'll have to figure something else out."
“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Peter answers, needing a moment to get a good look from up close, before taking a step and wrapping his arms around him. Claude doesn’t seem at all surprised, just sighs. After a moment, he rests his palms against Peter’s back, so gently as to almost not be contact at all, while Peter inhales, breathing in the new, strange scent Claude’s picked up from wherever the hell he’s been the past month.
Henry coughs behind them, and Peter ducks his head and pulls back.
“Sorry,” Henry says, blushing a little. “But we should, uh, go. And you need to-you both need to sit down."
They do. Claude takes the moment to open his bag and transfer several white paper bags full of clinking glass into the cooler.
“What is all that?” Peter says, straining to be heard over the buzz of the motor and the slap of the waves against the boat.
“Antibiotics, mostly. Some anesthetics. Dunno about the rest, just grabbed what I could."
“Ambulance or hospital?"
“Hospital. Better selection, usually."
“Did you bother getting your arm looked at while you were there?"
Claude sighs and rolls up his sleeve. The long, bleeding gash that Peter’d just barely had time to bandage a month ago had been stitched up, neatly, and is almost healed. “Good enough?"
“Good enough,” he says, and carefully rolls Claude’s sleeve back down. “So where were you?"
Claude half turns, glancing at the waves. “Here and there."
Peter nods to himself, and cross his arms in front of him again. “Okay."
*
They make good time back to the barge. Once there, Claude goes to deliver his ill-gotten medical bounty to the makeshift sick bay, and Peter goes back to his cabin, where his never-ending stack of paperwork (messages from contacts around the world, letters from his mother, invoices, write-ups about various disagreements between fellow passengers) has been piling up. He grabs a handful of sheets at random, tucks his laptop under his arm, and heads back down to the galley.
An hour passes, and the barge is moving again, meaning someone other than him has served as the tie-breaker on the refueling issue. Two hours pass, and night falls. A couple of kids wander in looking for dinner, make some sandwiches, and exit almost immediately.
Four hours later, and his head is killing him, which is the unfortunate side effect of spite reading while trying to keep up a Don’t Look Here field, which is harder to maintain than invisibility, but more effective against someone who actually possesses invisibility, as well as everyone else on the barge. He lets it drop, and sighs, wanting to bury his face in his hands but worrying that someone might see him do it.
Someone does; he hears Claude’s footsteps behind him, as he makes his way around the kitchen. Opens the refrigerator, turns on the burner, opens some cabinets. If Peter were to guess, and he has to, because he’s not about to turn around and look, he’d say Claude was making himself some tea.
“Hot chocolate,” Claude says, coming around behind him and placing a mug on the table in front of him. “With a little somethin’ extra."
“Oh yeah?” Peter says, leaning back enough to be able to see him, and Claude raises his eyebrows.
“You looked like needed it.”
Peter laughs and reaches for the mug. “Thanks."
Claude fiddles gently with the hair at the nape of his neck. Peter smiles and leans into it, pressing the back of his head against Claude’s stomach.
“You’re growin' it out again.”
“I guess so."
"Bit unprofessional for the Leader of the Revolution, yeah?"
"You always liked it like this," he says, simply, turning his head to nuzzle against him, and Claude stops stroking for second.
“Suppose I did," he says, finally, and resumes stroking, and Peter smiles to himself as he takes a sip of the hot chocolate. It’s the basic stuff, from a box, but it’s warm and sweet and the alcoholic kick of brandy is soothing, as are the fingers carding through his hair.
"God, I love you," he says, without thinking, and practically hears Claude freeze. Peter wonders, somewhat morbidly, if Claude's going to drop his own mug before making a run for it into the sea, or at least put it down on the table first. Peter hopes it’s the latter; good dinnerware’s hard to come by.
He sits down opposite Peter instead and takes a long sip. Ah, he's decided to feign selective deafness instead, like that time outside Beja. Of course he'd been half dead then, so maybe he really hadn't heard.
Peter waits till hears the dull thud of Claude putting down his mug before he speaks again. "You're seriously not surprised."
"You're the Blessed Saint Peter, Savior of Us All. Guess the real question'd be, who don’t you love?"
"Well I'm not crazy about how you ditch me every time you remember you're in love with me."
"That's more of a what than a who, mate." Peter looks up at him, and Claude sighs and runs a hand through his own hair. "I'm not drunk enough for this conversation."
Peter cocks his head, genuinely curious. "Are you ever?"
“Not as yet, but I s’ppose I could give it a go."
Peter chuckles to himself and drops his gaze, gets to work on sorting out the papers which can now go in the DONE pile. “What do you think’s going to happen?"
“What?"
“If we have this conversation. What do you think’s going to happen?"
“Dunno. Guess I’ll be sleepin’ on the couch for a while."
“That’s more of a punishment for me than for you,” he says, because it is: Claude can, and does, sleep just about as well anywhere. Seven years on the run and on the streets will do that to a person. Peter’s the one who gets used to sleeping next to someone almost immediately and then feels like shit when the opportunity’s taken away from him. “I’m not going to kick you off the barge."
“Didn’t think you would, mate."
He takes a long drink from his hot chocolate. “Because I’m the Blessed Saint Peter, Savior of You All?"
“Somethin’ like that."
Peter sighs. “I can function without you."
“What?"
“If that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“I know you can,” Claude says, sharply, and Peter looks up at him.
“I’m probably going to die doing this, you know?” he says.
Claude forces a smile. “Paperwork?"
God, if only. “The Petrelli Movement,” he says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the name. "One day I’m going to be out there, trying to help someone, and I won’t make it back. Or something’ll happen here. Interpol’s bound to catch up with us one of these days. Maybe the next time we don’t hear about it in time to get away. So they find us, take us all out, and that’s it."
“Pete,” Claude says, soft, careful, which is never really a good sign, with Claude. It usually means he’s about to explain something he thinks Peter doesn’t want to know, and he’s usually right about that.
Peter looks down at the ancient wood of the table; someone’d carved their initials into it decades ago, an endearingly optimistic bid for immortality. He smiles to himself and looks up.
“I get that you’re good at alone. I get that you’re used to it, and this is…” he waves between them, and shrugs. “Different. But I think my chances are better with you, and I think your chances are too. I think we’re doing good work and I think it’s better when you’re here. I think we’re both…better off with each other than without. But it’s your choice, and you are always welcome here, no matter what choice you make."
Claude’s silent for a good long while. When Peter finally braves another glance at him, he’s staring, blue eyes soft and expression tender in a way that Peter isn’t prepared for. He notices that Peter’s looking and clears his throat. “Is that it?” he says, voice rough, and Peter blinks.
“No,” he says, shoving the last of his papers into a convenient folder and finishing the last of his chocolate in one gulp. “It feels like I haven’t slept in a month. I’m exhausted, I’m cranky as hell, and you owe me at least one good ‘yay, we didn’t die’ fuck."
Claude barks a laugh at that, clearly surprised. “So?"
“So I’m going to bed.” Peter piles his folders on top of his computer and tucks them all under his arm. “Are you coming or not?"
*
Peter’s usually less selfish when it comes to sex, but tonight, at least, he’s willing to lie back and let Claude do most of the work. He kisses back lazily, open-mouthed and sloppy, as Claude fucks him. Runs his hands down the warm skin of Claude’s back, fingers tracing the familiar scars. Buries his face against the side of Claude’s throat as Claude pants breathlessly into his ear. Claude comes first, almost in silence, gasping into Peter’s mouth. Peter follows quickly, back arching at the feeling of Claude still twitching inside of him.
He falls back onto the bed. Claude comes with him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, and then pulls back.
“Yay,” Claude drawls, in a very mild mockery of his accent. “We didn’t die."
Peter, buoyed by the post-coital rush of exhilaration and his own exhaustion, dissolves into a fit of very dignified giggles. Claude smiles down at him like he may be the best thing he’s ever seen, and then flops onto his back, barely waiting for Peter to catch his breath before grabbing his arm and dragging him onto Claude's chest.
Peter grins, and settles in, listening to the still-rapid beat of Claude’s heart beneath his ear as Claude’s fingers trail their way through Peter’s hair and over Peter's still-sensitive skin.
“How long were you workin’ on that speech of yours?"
“The past two weeks."
“Before then?"
Peter exhales. “I was going to give you a cabin at the other end of the barge and tell you to stay the hell away from me whenever you were on board."
Claude fingers thread careful through his hair. “The Sylar Treatment, eh?"
“That’s more for Claire than for me.”
Claude hums in understanding, and runs a hand across his shoulders. “How’re the kids doin’?"
“Everyone from Monaco made it. I think they’re all settling in okay. Claire’s helping out with the broadcasts."
“You all right with that?"
He rubs his cheek against Claude’s chest, and stifles a yawn. “Better her than me."
Claude chuckles, softly. “Get some sleep, love."
“Planning on it,” he mumbles, and shuts his eyes.
*
He wakes up on his side, with Claude’s chest pressed to his back, and Claude's arm around his waist. The sun hasn’t even risen yet. Peter’s fully prepared to fall back asleep, but then: “Oi.”
Peter groans into his pillow. “What?"
“Happy Secession Day, mate."
“What?"
“’s the Fourth of July, yeah? Could have ourselves a bit of a party, later. Always up for celebratin’ treason, me.”
Peter groans. “Go back to sleep."
“Whatever you say, love."
*
A/N Part 2: A million thanks to trippypeas who, in addition to beta'ing this fic, was also the recipient of my initial freak out in re: The Love Barge and was an encouraging angel over the past three days, which I have spent in a strange timewarp where, once again, I spent my Saturdays working retail and writing Plaude fic in my head. I hadn't done that since 2008.
Also so many thanks to waterietart, who sent me the message that STARTED IT ALL.
And I guess a blanket thanks to all of the Old Plaude Crew. It was my first real fandom, the first pairing I ever wrote fic for, and in some ways, the source of everything I am as a writer of fanfiction. Y'all were and continue to be the best, tbh.
Fandom: Heroes, Heroes Reborn
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Peter Petrelli/Claude Rains.
Warnings: Vague descriptions of sex
Word Count: 2401
A/N: Based entirely on the Heroes Reborn supplemental novel, Save the Cheerleader, Destroy the World, which you can buy for $2.51 and FREAK OUT about the mentions of Peter and Claude canonically living on a Love Barge off the coast of Western Europe, or you can read my very accurate but somewhat biased write-up of the same, for free.
Either way, without that info, this will probably make very little sense to you, but on the other hand, idk, maybe.
Summary:
“Hey,” Peter calls out, standing up as the boat sputters to a stop. "Need a lift?"
"That depends, mate. What'll it cost me?"
"Well," Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would say your honor, but you don't exactly have much to spare, huh?"
Claude's lips thin before he swings his bag, then himself, down onto the boat. "Guess we'll have to figure something else out."
Peter rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes and wishes, not for the first time that day, probably not for the last, that he could just go back to bed already. Not that he’ll actually get any sleep, but at least he wouldn’t have to listen to the risk/reward analysis of refueling now, when they were out of place enough to be noticed, or hoping that they’d have enough to get them somewhere busy enough where they’d blend in. The Captain of the barge has made her points a thousand times before, and Mohinder’s opinions are just as well known. They’re both right, as always, and Peter is, as always, supposed to be the ultimate arbitrator. At some point, he’s given up actually weighing the options that always come out exactly even, and just started alternating; the problem is, he doesn’t remember who he sided with last time.
He sighs, and he wishes for a momentary distraction. He gets one, in the form a whip-thin re-head named Henry knocking on the door to the Captain’s office to remind her that he’s going to need use of one of the boats.
Apparently she needs the reminder: “Why?”
“Wolf Epsilon called for a pick up.”
Peter’s head snaps up. “What?"
“Peter-“ Mohinder says, and Peter shakes him off, walking over to Henry.
“By Aberdaron,” Henry says, looking confused. "An hour from now."
“Evac?"
“No, just a pick-up. Says he’s got perishables, so we're supposed to bring a cooler."
“What kind of perishables?"
"I didn't take the call, sir."
Peter winces instinctively at the sir but presses on. "Who did?"
"Kara, I think?"
“Where is she?"
"On her break."
Peter pushes at him and heads toward the galley. He turns back. “Don’t leave without me, okay?"
“Sir?"
“I’m coming for the pickup. So don’t leave without me."
*
About forty minutes later, they’re on their way, after Peter had spent an awkward ten of them questioning Kara, who's unfortunately one of the kids who still gets somewhat starstruck when they see him in person. She had confirmed the call-sign though, and the request for the cooler, and the fact that Peter was apparently not to be informed about any of it.
And so here he is, riding a motorboat through choppy grey waters, scanning the coming shoreline for a familiar shape. He spots it quicker than he expects, quicker than he’s ready for, really. “There!” he calls back, to Henry, who nods and steers the boat toward the tall, striking figure on the shore.
He looks better than when he left: clean-shaven, for a change, with a recent haircut, and a sturdy green sweater that Peter hasn’t seen before. His well-worn canvas duffle’s at his feet, looking somewhat lumpier than usual.
“Hey,” Peter calls out, standing up as the boat sputters to a stop. "Need a lift?"
"That depends, mate. What'll it cost me?"
"Well," Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would say your honor, but you don't exactly have much to spare, huh?"
Claude's lips thin before he swings his bag, then himself, down onto the boat. "Guess we'll have to figure something else out."
“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Peter answers, needing a moment to get a good look from up close, before taking a step and wrapping his arms around him. Claude doesn’t seem at all surprised, just sighs. After a moment, he rests his palms against Peter’s back, so gently as to almost not be contact at all, while Peter inhales, breathing in the new, strange scent Claude’s picked up from wherever the hell he’s been the past month.
Henry coughs behind them, and Peter ducks his head and pulls back.
“Sorry,” Henry says, blushing a little. “But we should, uh, go. And you need to-you both need to sit down."
They do. Claude takes the moment to open his bag and transfer several white paper bags full of clinking glass into the cooler.
“What is all that?” Peter says, straining to be heard over the buzz of the motor and the slap of the waves against the boat.
“Antibiotics, mostly. Some anesthetics. Dunno about the rest, just grabbed what I could."
“Ambulance or hospital?"
“Hospital. Better selection, usually."
“Did you bother getting your arm looked at while you were there?"
Claude sighs and rolls up his sleeve. The long, bleeding gash that Peter’d just barely had time to bandage a month ago had been stitched up, neatly, and is almost healed. “Good enough?"
“Good enough,” he says, and carefully rolls Claude’s sleeve back down. “So where were you?"
Claude half turns, glancing at the waves. “Here and there."
Peter nods to himself, and cross his arms in front of him again. “Okay."
*
They make good time back to the barge. Once there, Claude goes to deliver his ill-gotten medical bounty to the makeshift sick bay, and Peter goes back to his cabin, where his never-ending stack of paperwork (messages from contacts around the world, letters from his mother, invoices, write-ups about various disagreements between fellow passengers) has been piling up. He grabs a handful of sheets at random, tucks his laptop under his arm, and heads back down to the galley.
An hour passes, and the barge is moving again, meaning someone other than him has served as the tie-breaker on the refueling issue. Two hours pass, and night falls. A couple of kids wander in looking for dinner, make some sandwiches, and exit almost immediately.
Four hours later, and his head is killing him, which is the unfortunate side effect of spite reading while trying to keep up a Don’t Look Here field, which is harder to maintain than invisibility, but more effective against someone who actually possesses invisibility, as well as everyone else on the barge. He lets it drop, and sighs, wanting to bury his face in his hands but worrying that someone might see him do it.
Someone does; he hears Claude’s footsteps behind him, as he makes his way around the kitchen. Opens the refrigerator, turns on the burner, opens some cabinets. If Peter were to guess, and he has to, because he’s not about to turn around and look, he’d say Claude was making himself some tea.
“Hot chocolate,” Claude says, coming around behind him and placing a mug on the table in front of him. “With a little somethin’ extra."
“Oh yeah?” Peter says, leaning back enough to be able to see him, and Claude raises his eyebrows.
“You looked like needed it.”
Peter laughs and reaches for the mug. “Thanks."
Claude fiddles gently with the hair at the nape of his neck. Peter smiles and leans into it, pressing the back of his head against Claude’s stomach.
“You’re growin' it out again.”
“I guess so."
"Bit unprofessional for the Leader of the Revolution, yeah?"
"You always liked it like this," he says, simply, turning his head to nuzzle against him, and Claude stops stroking for second.
“Suppose I did," he says, finally, and resumes stroking, and Peter smiles to himself as he takes a sip of the hot chocolate. It’s the basic stuff, from a box, but it’s warm and sweet and the alcoholic kick of brandy is soothing, as are the fingers carding through his hair.
"God, I love you," he says, without thinking, and practically hears Claude freeze. Peter wonders, somewhat morbidly, if Claude's going to drop his own mug before making a run for it into the sea, or at least put it down on the table first. Peter hopes it’s the latter; good dinnerware’s hard to come by.
He sits down opposite Peter instead and takes a long sip. Ah, he's decided to feign selective deafness instead, like that time outside Beja. Of course he'd been half dead then, so maybe he really hadn't heard.
Peter waits till hears the dull thud of Claude putting down his mug before he speaks again. "You're seriously not surprised."
"You're the Blessed Saint Peter, Savior of Us All. Guess the real question'd be, who don’t you love?"
"Well I'm not crazy about how you ditch me every time you remember you're in love with me."
"That's more of a what than a who, mate." Peter looks up at him, and Claude sighs and runs a hand through his own hair. "I'm not drunk enough for this conversation."
Peter cocks his head, genuinely curious. "Are you ever?"
“Not as yet, but I s’ppose I could give it a go."
Peter chuckles to himself and drops his gaze, gets to work on sorting out the papers which can now go in the DONE pile. “What do you think’s going to happen?"
“What?"
“If we have this conversation. What do you think’s going to happen?"
“Dunno. Guess I’ll be sleepin’ on the couch for a while."
“That’s more of a punishment for me than for you,” he says, because it is: Claude can, and does, sleep just about as well anywhere. Seven years on the run and on the streets will do that to a person. Peter’s the one who gets used to sleeping next to someone almost immediately and then feels like shit when the opportunity’s taken away from him. “I’m not going to kick you off the barge."
“Didn’t think you would, mate."
He takes a long drink from his hot chocolate. “Because I’m the Blessed Saint Peter, Savior of You All?"
“Somethin’ like that."
Peter sighs. “I can function without you."
“What?"
“If that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“I know you can,” Claude says, sharply, and Peter looks up at him.
“I’m probably going to die doing this, you know?” he says.
Claude forces a smile. “Paperwork?"
God, if only. “The Petrelli Movement,” he says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the name. "One day I’m going to be out there, trying to help someone, and I won’t make it back. Or something’ll happen here. Interpol’s bound to catch up with us one of these days. Maybe the next time we don’t hear about it in time to get away. So they find us, take us all out, and that’s it."
“Pete,” Claude says, soft, careful, which is never really a good sign, with Claude. It usually means he’s about to explain something he thinks Peter doesn’t want to know, and he’s usually right about that.
Peter looks down at the ancient wood of the table; someone’d carved their initials into it decades ago, an endearingly optimistic bid for immortality. He smiles to himself and looks up.
“I get that you’re good at alone. I get that you’re used to it, and this is…” he waves between them, and shrugs. “Different. But I think my chances are better with you, and I think your chances are too. I think we’re doing good work and I think it’s better when you’re here. I think we’re both…better off with each other than without. But it’s your choice, and you are always welcome here, no matter what choice you make."
Claude’s silent for a good long while. When Peter finally braves another glance at him, he’s staring, blue eyes soft and expression tender in a way that Peter isn’t prepared for. He notices that Peter’s looking and clears his throat. “Is that it?” he says, voice rough, and Peter blinks.
“No,” he says, shoving the last of his papers into a convenient folder and finishing the last of his chocolate in one gulp. “It feels like I haven’t slept in a month. I’m exhausted, I’m cranky as hell, and you owe me at least one good ‘yay, we didn’t die’ fuck."
Claude barks a laugh at that, clearly surprised. “So?"
“So I’m going to bed.” Peter piles his folders on top of his computer and tucks them all under his arm. “Are you coming or not?"
*
Peter’s usually less selfish when it comes to sex, but tonight, at least, he’s willing to lie back and let Claude do most of the work. He kisses back lazily, open-mouthed and sloppy, as Claude fucks him. Runs his hands down the warm skin of Claude’s back, fingers tracing the familiar scars. Buries his face against the side of Claude’s throat as Claude pants breathlessly into his ear. Claude comes first, almost in silence, gasping into Peter’s mouth. Peter follows quickly, back arching at the feeling of Claude still twitching inside of him.
He falls back onto the bed. Claude comes with him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, and then pulls back.
“Yay,” Claude drawls, in a very mild mockery of his accent. “We didn’t die."
Peter, buoyed by the post-coital rush of exhilaration and his own exhaustion, dissolves into a fit of very dignified giggles. Claude smiles down at him like he may be the best thing he’s ever seen, and then flops onto his back, barely waiting for Peter to catch his breath before grabbing his arm and dragging him onto Claude's chest.
Peter grins, and settles in, listening to the still-rapid beat of Claude’s heart beneath his ear as Claude’s fingers trail their way through Peter’s hair and over Peter's still-sensitive skin.
“How long were you workin’ on that speech of yours?"
“The past two weeks."
“Before then?"
Peter exhales. “I was going to give you a cabin at the other end of the barge and tell you to stay the hell away from me whenever you were on board."
Claude fingers thread careful through his hair. “The Sylar Treatment, eh?"
“That’s more for Claire than for me.”
Claude hums in understanding, and runs a hand across his shoulders. “How’re the kids doin’?"
“Everyone from Monaco made it. I think they’re all settling in okay. Claire’s helping out with the broadcasts."
“You all right with that?"
He rubs his cheek against Claude’s chest, and stifles a yawn. “Better her than me."
Claude chuckles, softly. “Get some sleep, love."
“Planning on it,” he mumbles, and shuts his eyes.
*
He wakes up on his side, with Claude’s chest pressed to his back, and Claude's arm around his waist. The sun hasn’t even risen yet. Peter’s fully prepared to fall back asleep, but then: “Oi.”
Peter groans into his pillow. “What?"
“Happy Secession Day, mate."
“What?"
“’s the Fourth of July, yeah? Could have ourselves a bit of a party, later. Always up for celebratin’ treason, me.”
Peter groans. “Go back to sleep."
“Whatever you say, love."
*
A/N Part 2: A million thanks to trippypeas who, in addition to beta'ing this fic, was also the recipient of my initial freak out in re: The Love Barge and was an encouraging angel over the past three days, which I have spent in a strange timewarp where, once again, I spent my Saturdays working retail and writing Plaude fic in my head. I hadn't done that since 2008.
Also so many thanks to waterietart, who sent me the message that STARTED IT ALL.
And I guess a blanket thanks to all of the Old Plaude Crew. It was my first real fandom, the first pairing I ever wrote fic for, and in some ways, the source of everything I am as a writer of fanfiction. Y'all were and continue to be the best, tbh.