The Heroes Bride (3/?)
Title: The Heroes Bride
Characters/Pairings: Overall, Peter, Claude, Bennet, Adam, Mohinder, Sylar, etc, etc, etc (oh, that's a different movie) but this...is Peter centric, although viewed from one of the others mentioned's point of view. Surprise?
Summary: My version of The Princess Bride, with assorted Heroes characters, centering on Plaude.
Rating: Overall, won't get beyond R, probably not PG-13 even. PG-13 in this part, which is really playing it safe.
Warnings: Me really taking "show, don't tell" to heart, possibly to the point of confusing the crap of anyone who isn't me.
Spoilers: Pretty much nothing for the show, and lots for the movie
A/N: In this chapter: Peter is a little too trusting, someone else takes advantage of that, and all sorts of things are, hopefully, set in motion.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Heroes or The Princess Bride, and, in fact, owe the creators of both my eternal gratitude.
Special thanks to c_quinn, as always.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Are you okay?
Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?
You look a little upset.
I am not upset.
Because, why would you be?
Because something awful is clearly going to happen? I mean, that’s just...obvious.
Well, aren’t you the smartest cookie in the jar. But you’re not upset?
I am getting a little annoyed, actually.
Fine. Moving on.
It is a sort of tradition, among the more besotted of individuals, in the more romantic of stories, to temper the pain of separation from their one true love, or even that from lesser ones, has true love not yet made its entrance into their lives, through acts of romantic epistolary.
Where this compulsion stems from, and which lovers are more likely to be afflicted with this need to record each moment of tender heartache and emotional turmoil for the perusal of, among others, the very person that caused it, is better left to individuals with a great deal more letters after their names to explain.
Suffice to say, Peter was one abandoned lover so afflicted.
This was not, strictly speaking, an immense shock; the always reliable Rumor and Speculation concerning the poor boy’s tale of woe had made it wrenchingly clear that he was just the sort to be that altogether sappy.
Of course, both Rumor and Speculation had grossly underestimated the young man’s beauty, but perhaps that was a matter of taste; perhaps those eminent anthropomorphic doyennes were not as appreciative of too-long dark hair and green eyes tinged with all sorts of longing and sadness as he was.
More, definitively, was the pity for them, because the boy was not only beautiful, but clearly not in possession of the wits such arguable beauty necessitated; winningly, charmingly naïve beneath his tragic look and tortured smiles, and he couldn’t help but be intrigued by that.
Because Peter was fascinating to watch, trying to reconcile his misfortune with a genuine belief that the world was fair and that people were good, still hopeful after five years, still waiting after what were probably hundreds of letters unsent (although he only saw the one, half finished and carefully penned, Peter was the once-a-week-shows-I-love-you, sort) and obviously unanswered.
And while he waited for the boy to return from the kitchen, with the promised cup of tea, he carefully skimmed over several I miss you’s and I love you’s and When you get back’s, descriptions of past moments and a kiss in the rain that he was fairly sure was penned less for the benefit of the alleged recipient and more as a reminder to Peter that it had happened, that it had been love, that it still had to be.
He hadn’t truly believed in such sentiment for years, but he was quickly coming to the conclusion that if there had been one person for whom love really did last forever, it would be Peter.
Peter, the boy who would knock politely on his own bedroom door, bearing tea for a complete stranger he had also offered a change of clothes, a place to spend the night, a home cooked meal, as if an apparent rescue from an admittedly painful fall from his horse hadn’t been enough.
“Come in, then,” he called out, scanning the small table by the bed (of course, given the actual size of the room, just about everything could have been classified as “by the bed”) to ensure that the many papers were in the same state of disorder he’d found them in, letting his lips curve into a small smile at the satisfaction of a job well done. “I’m as decent as I’ll ever be.”
“Yeah…” and Peter peered inside, hesitant, blushing slightly and yes, Claude, it was clear, had been as much of a fool as he’d ever been to have left this. “Whatever that means. I’ve…got your tea.”
“Thank you,” he smiled, taking the rather heavy mug in hand, resisting the temptation to do anything as obvious as brush a hand over the boy’s in the process, before tipping it in his direction dramatically. “To you then, valiant young man. Hero, as it were, of the moment.”
“Peter,” the boy corrected, smiling a rather pleasant lopsided smile, “Not ‘young man’. And not, you know, all that heroic.”
“Ah, but a bit, then?” he smirked, “But ‘tis true, I suppose; saving a fallen man is not that terribly heroic, unless, of course, it’s on a battlefield.”
And Peter’s face remained calm, and his slight smile didn’t fade. Interesting.
“But what it surely was,” he continued, raising the mug, “Was kind. And so: to you, Peter. A kind soul in a cruel world.”
“Thanks,” the boy nodded, polite, but frowning, glancing at the muddied pile of subtly elegant clothes he’d done his best to fold. “But it can’t have been all that cruel to you.”
“There are different kinds of cruelty, Peter,” he sighed, pitched it world-weary and knowing, before shaking his head, “I suppose whatever you’ve been through has been worse.”
“What…what I’ve been…through?”
And a bad liar, too; not terribly surprising, that, but still…delightful.
“Come now, Peter; I’m a great believer in privacy, to be sure but…one does not leave heartfelt letters out in the view of perfect strangers and not expect a bit of curiosity.”
“I…you can’t do that. It’s not…you-“
“I apologize,” and sincerity was one of the easiest things, he’d found, to convince Peter of, because he seemed to expected it. “It was presumptuous of me, after you have shown me nothing but compassion in my hour of rather embarrassing need.”
“It’s…okay, I guess, just…no one’s really supposed to know, and he’ll be…upset if he-“
Of course, Peter’s brand of sincerity was pure enough to cut through his, had he felt any shame in its use.
“I am truly sorry,” and he sipped at his tea; well-made and just the right temperature; someone had trained him well, and he’d apparently kept in practice since. “But I’d like to help you.”
“What...why...with what?”
The boy’s tendency to sputter confusedly at very simple statements did have the potential to become irritating, but he held down the urge to sigh and merely grinned instead, hoped the boy would catch his excitement, however false it was.
“Finding him, Peter. I’d like to help you find him.”
“No offense but...who are you to...”
And he had to try very hard not to roll his eyes.
“I’ve the resources, thank you, and the manpower. Trust me, I’ll manage.”
He waited, watched as Peter pursed his lips and tapped nervously at the doorframe, searching his face, perhaps in search of any hint of duplicity, but he doubted it.
Waited for him to ask, even though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t; he was still too trusting to wonder.
Answered before he’d have to.
“All you’d have to do is come with me, back home. Leave him a note, here, in case he comes back and…”
“Thank you,” Peter smiled again, that same crooked curve that he couldn’t imagine quirked in anger, in sarcasm, in anything but the honesty that radiated from his tone. “I don’t even...know you and you’re being so-“
“Ah,” he chuckled, sipping again from his tea, “You’ve no idea who I am, then?”
The boy shook his head, curious but unconcerned, and he was tempted, for a brief moment, to leave it that way; to forget this, to let him continue his private vigil, foolish as it was, for dead love in peace, but the impulse passed.
“I’m Adam, Peter,” and he shrugged, in an attempt to belittle the words to come, let himself ramble a bit; it tended to inspire compassion, as if Peter needed inspiration. “Crown Prince. And all that entails. Prince Adam, as it were, but I'd truly prefer...just Adam."
And on to Chapter 4...
Characters/Pairings: Overall, Peter, Claude, Bennet, Adam, Mohinder, Sylar, etc, etc, etc (oh, that's a different movie) but this...is Peter centric, although viewed from one of the others mentioned's point of view. Surprise?
Summary: My version of The Princess Bride, with assorted Heroes characters, centering on Plaude.
Rating: Overall, won't get beyond R, probably not PG-13 even. PG-13 in this part, which is really playing it safe.
Warnings: Me really taking "show, don't tell" to heart, possibly to the point of confusing the crap of anyone who isn't me.
Spoilers: Pretty much nothing for the show, and lots for the movie
A/N: In this chapter: Peter is a little too trusting, someone else takes advantage of that, and all sorts of things are, hopefully, set in motion.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Heroes or The Princess Bride, and, in fact, owe the creators of both my eternal gratitude.
Special thanks to c_quinn, as always.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Are you okay?
Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?
You look a little upset.
I am not upset.
Because, why would you be?
Because something awful is clearly going to happen? I mean, that’s just...obvious.
Well, aren’t you the smartest cookie in the jar. But you’re not upset?
I am getting a little annoyed, actually.
Fine. Moving on.
It is a sort of tradition, among the more besotted of individuals, in the more romantic of stories, to temper the pain of separation from their one true love, or even that from lesser ones, has true love not yet made its entrance into their lives, through acts of romantic epistolary.
Where this compulsion stems from, and which lovers are more likely to be afflicted with this need to record each moment of tender heartache and emotional turmoil for the perusal of, among others, the very person that caused it, is better left to individuals with a great deal more letters after their names to explain.
Suffice to say, Peter was one abandoned lover so afflicted.
This was not, strictly speaking, an immense shock; the always reliable Rumor and Speculation concerning the poor boy’s tale of woe had made it wrenchingly clear that he was just the sort to be that altogether sappy.
Of course, both Rumor and Speculation had grossly underestimated the young man’s beauty, but perhaps that was a matter of taste; perhaps those eminent anthropomorphic doyennes were not as appreciative of too-long dark hair and green eyes tinged with all sorts of longing and sadness as he was.
More, definitively, was the pity for them, because the boy was not only beautiful, but clearly not in possession of the wits such arguable beauty necessitated; winningly, charmingly naïve beneath his tragic look and tortured smiles, and he couldn’t help but be intrigued by that.
Because Peter was fascinating to watch, trying to reconcile his misfortune with a genuine belief that the world was fair and that people were good, still hopeful after five years, still waiting after what were probably hundreds of letters unsent (although he only saw the one, half finished and carefully penned, Peter was the once-a-week-shows-I-love-you, sort) and obviously unanswered.
And while he waited for the boy to return from the kitchen, with the promised cup of tea, he carefully skimmed over several I miss you’s and I love you’s and When you get back’s, descriptions of past moments and a kiss in the rain that he was fairly sure was penned less for the benefit of the alleged recipient and more as a reminder to Peter that it had happened, that it had been love, that it still had to be.
He hadn’t truly believed in such sentiment for years, but he was quickly coming to the conclusion that if there had been one person for whom love really did last forever, it would be Peter.
Peter, the boy who would knock politely on his own bedroom door, bearing tea for a complete stranger he had also offered a change of clothes, a place to spend the night, a home cooked meal, as if an apparent rescue from an admittedly painful fall from his horse hadn’t been enough.
“Come in, then,” he called out, scanning the small table by the bed (of course, given the actual size of the room, just about everything could have been classified as “by the bed”) to ensure that the many papers were in the same state of disorder he’d found them in, letting his lips curve into a small smile at the satisfaction of a job well done. “I’m as decent as I’ll ever be.”
“Yeah…” and Peter peered inside, hesitant, blushing slightly and yes, Claude, it was clear, had been as much of a fool as he’d ever been to have left this. “Whatever that means. I’ve…got your tea.”
“Thank you,” he smiled, taking the rather heavy mug in hand, resisting the temptation to do anything as obvious as brush a hand over the boy’s in the process, before tipping it in his direction dramatically. “To you then, valiant young man. Hero, as it were, of the moment.”
“Peter,” the boy corrected, smiling a rather pleasant lopsided smile, “Not ‘young man’. And not, you know, all that heroic.”
“Ah, but a bit, then?” he smirked, “But ‘tis true, I suppose; saving a fallen man is not that terribly heroic, unless, of course, it’s on a battlefield.”
And Peter’s face remained calm, and his slight smile didn’t fade. Interesting.
“But what it surely was,” he continued, raising the mug, “Was kind. And so: to you, Peter. A kind soul in a cruel world.”
“Thanks,” the boy nodded, polite, but frowning, glancing at the muddied pile of subtly elegant clothes he’d done his best to fold. “But it can’t have been all that cruel to you.”
“There are different kinds of cruelty, Peter,” he sighed, pitched it world-weary and knowing, before shaking his head, “I suppose whatever you’ve been through has been worse.”
“What…what I’ve been…through?”
And a bad liar, too; not terribly surprising, that, but still…delightful.
“Come now, Peter; I’m a great believer in privacy, to be sure but…one does not leave heartfelt letters out in the view of perfect strangers and not expect a bit of curiosity.”
“I…you can’t do that. It’s not…you-“
“I apologize,” and sincerity was one of the easiest things, he’d found, to convince Peter of, because he seemed to expected it. “It was presumptuous of me, after you have shown me nothing but compassion in my hour of rather embarrassing need.”
“It’s…okay, I guess, just…no one’s really supposed to know, and he’ll be…upset if he-“
Of course, Peter’s brand of sincerity was pure enough to cut through his, had he felt any shame in its use.
“I am truly sorry,” and he sipped at his tea; well-made and just the right temperature; someone had trained him well, and he’d apparently kept in practice since. “But I’d like to help you.”
“What...why...with what?”
The boy’s tendency to sputter confusedly at very simple statements did have the potential to become irritating, but he held down the urge to sigh and merely grinned instead, hoped the boy would catch his excitement, however false it was.
“Finding him, Peter. I’d like to help you find him.”
“No offense but...who are you to...”
And he had to try very hard not to roll his eyes.
“I’ve the resources, thank you, and the manpower. Trust me, I’ll manage.”
He waited, watched as Peter pursed his lips and tapped nervously at the doorframe, searching his face, perhaps in search of any hint of duplicity, but he doubted it.
Waited for him to ask, even though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t; he was still too trusting to wonder.
Answered before he’d have to.
“All you’d have to do is come with me, back home. Leave him a note, here, in case he comes back and…”
“Thank you,” Peter smiled again, that same crooked curve that he couldn’t imagine quirked in anger, in sarcasm, in anything but the honesty that radiated from his tone. “I don’t even...know you and you’re being so-“
“Ah,” he chuckled, sipping again from his tea, “You’ve no idea who I am, then?”
The boy shook his head, curious but unconcerned, and he was tempted, for a brief moment, to leave it that way; to forget this, to let him continue his private vigil, foolish as it was, for dead love in peace, but the impulse passed.
“I’m Adam, Peter,” and he shrugged, in an attempt to belittle the words to come, let himself ramble a bit; it tended to inspire compassion, as if Peter needed inspiration. “Crown Prince. And all that entails. Prince Adam, as it were, but I'd truly prefer...just Adam."
And on to Chapter 4...