Reasons Unknown, Part 4
Title: Reasons Unknown, Part 4 (AKA, Limo Porn That Once Was).
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
A/N: Haha! Finally! And...there's one more part to come, but at least this is...something. That doesn't actually have any porn in it. Sorry.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
“No,” he says, and it comes out harsher than he’d intended, but apparently, since whatever it is he’s been doing hasn’t been harsh enough, he should’ve pitched it even harsher.
“Okay,” the boy tells him, shifting nervously. “I didn’t run away or anything. I’m not staying. Well, I’m staying but I am going back, I just…”
And stops; hopeful smile and shinning eyes, and he can’t let himself be taken in by that.
Again.
“No,” he says, even as he shuts the door behind him, and lets Peter follow him into the kitchen.
“I’ll go back in a week, I just-“
“You’ll go back tomorrow,” he sighs, not bothering to catch the expression as he pulls out a beer. “And your parents won’t end up havin’ me charged with kidnapping-“
“I’m eighteen, Claude, I’m allowed to leave the house,” Peter sighs, arms crossed, leaning against the counter, and pouting.
Entirely proving his point, which he’s not about to let pass.
“Your parents’ house though, isn’t it?” he gives the boy a look, as he sighs again and looks away. “And your parents’ money that got you here, yeah?”
“Claude…”
“Peter,” he mimics, and tries not to storm out of the kitchen.
The boy follows him, a couple of seconds behind, like the love-sick puppy that he is.
Settles next to him, after he collapses onto the couch and presses a hand over his eyes.
It’s been a long day, and it isn’t looking to get any better.
“I just wanted to see you again,” he hears Peter mumble, and looks over to quiet, desperate brown eyes.
She couldn’t have been much younger than Peter, he couldn’t help thinking. Tried not to, but the boy had apparently followed him there, as well.
Brilliant little-girl smile that he remembered, but hadn’t seen in months, and probably wouldn’t see again.
Because the reports were promising; they were going to break her, put her back together, turn her, into whatever it is he was supposed to be.
Whatever it is he was supposed to be, and wasn’t.
They’d lost him, too. Just a matter of time till someone figured it out.
“Why?” he asks, tries not to dread the inevitable answer.
Peter gives him that crooked smile, the one that got him into this situation in the first place, and shrugs. “I don’t know. Because I missed you.”
“It’s been a day, Pete,” he says, wearily. “Less than, for you to have gotten here by now.”
“Yeah, but it’s going to be more. You don’t come up there a lot, right? So…my parents are out of town, my brother’s on his honeymoon, and we…we didn’t get enough time in New York.”
We. Of course it was. Brilliant. He could smack the boy.
Does, actually, and doesn’t bother to hold back a smile at the indignant squeak.
“Right, so you come half-way across the country for what, exactly? A fuck?”
“Claude!” the boy gasps, as if personally insulted.
“Well, what, then?” he shrugs. “Anythin’ else, you could’ve written. Even that, actually, you could’ve-“
“I really just wanted to see you, okay?” and he refuses to let the sudden quaver in Peter’s voice intimidate him.
“I’ll get you a photo.”
“Really?” the boy brightens considerably, and Claude begins to hate himself, knowing he probably should’ve started earlier.
A beautiful young man, the other Petrelli.
Dark hair, shining eyes. Pretty lips and a smile to kill for, and he had to know it.
It had to be an act, the blushing, awkward bit; had to be, too much attention paid to him and too much sharpness in the lineage to be anything but.
He was probably the best of all of them, that he could radiate that sort of innocence and neediness and vulnerability in spite of it.
And surveillance was dull, especially of a target that’d spent, as far as he’d observed, most of the night out of place and bored out of his mind as well.
They really might as well keep each other company.
Peter smiles at him, hopeful, and he always has to be so bloody hopeful, even in the face of the less than encouraging welcome he’s been given.
And he still looks at him like he’s…something he’s utterly not, something he’s long since realized is impossible, something that the child (and he has to keep reminding himself of that, because that’s what he is) so desperately needs that it’s depressing.
It’ll drive him mad, all of it, sooner than he expected to be driven mad.
“So…” Peter grins, and Claude wonders if he truly thinks he hasn’t noticed the lean, warm body sliding closer and closer to him along the couch. “Can I stay?”
He looks at him for a moment, searches those soft eyes and knows he couldn’t be responsible for breaking this boy, knows he couldn’t see him know better just yet.
“Yeah, all right,” he sighs, and before he knows it, there’s arms around his neck and an impossibly warm torso pressing up against his, even as he mutters. “Not for a week, though. Just…just…”
“However long you want,” Peter pulls away, which isn’t nearly the improvement Claude figured it would be. Because his face is much too close and those crooked lips are open, wet and parted, and the arms still around his neck aren’t really letting him move as far as he needs to.
And he does need to.
Join up, see the world.
It hadn’t been the exact pitch he’d been given, in as much as he’d been given one at all., but he thought of it like that, in the beginning. Because it’d been his chance, to leave, to be something else.
And the money’d been good, of course, perhaps only by comparison but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was the world he was seeing; and yes, he was different. And there were others, who were different.
The abilities were the least of it, though; the way the world worked, the way the people he met live and acted and were, that’d been what he signed up for.
And that’d been what he’d seen.
What they hadn’t told him, what he hadn’t realized, what had only begun to build in his mind, was the reality: the parts of the world you see aren’t the parts you want.
They’re the broken parts.
And more often then not, it’s you that breaks them.
Peter kisses him.
He knows better than to kiss back, but not enough not to push him away, and there’s a reason for that.
Mostly, it’s because Peter kisses like he needs to, like he needs to more than he needs to breathe.
Like he needs the connection or he’ll be lost, and Claude can’t bear to see someone else lost, not today, not for a while.
And so he lets Peter kiss him, and after a while, letting Peter kiss him becomes letting himself kiss Peter back.
Which becomes letting Peter push him back, corner him against the arm of the couch, and settle against his chest as though he belongs there.
For all he knows, the boy does; truth be told, Claude wonders if there’s a place Peter wouldn’t belong, if that’s what he wanted; he fits everywhere, soft hair and lithe form, dark eyes taking as much as they can, crooked smile giving it back.
He sighs, strokes at the dark brown hair and the warm back, fingers brushing over the wrinkled t-shirt and feeling the heat of the skin underneath.
Kisses him back, harder, the way Peter needs to be kissed.
And it’s very quick, and it’s almost impossible, but he swears the boy flickers.
Out of visibility and back, and anything he’s managed to forget about that possibility, about the hotel in New York, his moment with the limousine keys, isn’t as willing to be pushed back into the realms of coincidence and unlikelihood anymore.
He must stiffen, or flinch, or more likely than not, Peter needs to breathe, because he pulls away, slowly.
Savoring, damn him, all lazy smile and swollen lips, and it’s all he can do to keep from carrying the boy back to his bed (and finally, a bed, it’s become ridiculous with the two of them) and never leaving.
“You okay?” he asks, eyelashes fluttering, and it’s probably unintentional but it threatens to drive Claude mad.
“Yeah, Pete,” he sighs, a hand reaching up to push a strand of hair out of his face. And then Peter’s smiling, resting his cheek against the palm of Claude’s hand.
Like they were something they weren’t; lovers, committed, something special and tender and…he really could kill the boy at this moment.
There were certain corridors he’d long since learned to avoid, if he could.
Well, the first step had been learning they existed; easy enough, for a young man more observant than he was observable.
And he’d managed it, effortlessly, even though he’d expected that a company designed to monitor and assist individuals with enhanced abilities to be a bit better at monitoring their own building and assisting individuals in following the very strict rules they’d been given in terms of access.
It’d almost been too easy, and he’d wondered about that, after.
Once he’d managed to get the screams out of his head and the scent of charred flesh off his skin.
Just his luck to be called down there the day he got back, his suit still smelling of Peter’s overly-earnest cologne that had nearly suffocated him on the drive to the airport.
“You hungry?” Peter mumbles against his palm, and Claude blinks.
“What?”
“I could make, like…a sandwich. Or something. If you…”
The cheek against his hand feels suddenly warmer as Peter ducks his head, and Claude slides his fingers under the boy’s chin. Tilts his head back up, to look more closely at obviously uncomfortable features.
“Peter,” he says, seriously, looking carefully into troubled brown eyes as he feels the boy swallow.
“Yeah?” Peter mumbles, eyes flickering down after a moment and then glancing back up.
“D’you ever think about somethin’ other than feeding me?”
And it takes a moment, of dark eyes staring at him with a focus that makes him check the temptation to fade, before Peter grins.
Flirtatious, crooked, and Claude should’ve known better.
“Oh, yeah. Lots of stuff,” Peter giggles, dropping a kiss to his forehead before he crawls off. “But right now, I’m kinda hungry, so…”
So he’s apparently justified in bounding into an almost-complete stranger’s kitchen and having the refrigerator half-open before its owner can even arrive to explain the lack of anything truly edible in it.
It’s good to know, that.
Part 5
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
A/N: Haha! Finally! And...there's one more part to come, but at least this is...something. That doesn't actually have any porn in it. Sorry.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
“No,” he says, and it comes out harsher than he’d intended, but apparently, since whatever it is he’s been doing hasn’t been harsh enough, he should’ve pitched it even harsher.
“Okay,” the boy tells him, shifting nervously. “I didn’t run away or anything. I’m not staying. Well, I’m staying but I am going back, I just…”
And stops; hopeful smile and shinning eyes, and he can’t let himself be taken in by that.
Again.
“No,” he says, even as he shuts the door behind him, and lets Peter follow him into the kitchen.
“I’ll go back in a week, I just-“
“You’ll go back tomorrow,” he sighs, not bothering to catch the expression as he pulls out a beer. “And your parents won’t end up havin’ me charged with kidnapping-“
“I’m eighteen, Claude, I’m allowed to leave the house,” Peter sighs, arms crossed, leaning against the counter, and pouting.
Entirely proving his point, which he’s not about to let pass.
“Your parents’ house though, isn’t it?” he gives the boy a look, as he sighs again and looks away. “And your parents’ money that got you here, yeah?”
“Claude…”
“Peter,” he mimics, and tries not to storm out of the kitchen.
The boy follows him, a couple of seconds behind, like the love-sick puppy that he is.
Settles next to him, after he collapses onto the couch and presses a hand over his eyes.
It’s been a long day, and it isn’t looking to get any better.
“I just wanted to see you again,” he hears Peter mumble, and looks over to quiet, desperate brown eyes.
She couldn’t have been much younger than Peter, he couldn’t help thinking. Tried not to, but the boy had apparently followed him there, as well.
Brilliant little-girl smile that he remembered, but hadn’t seen in months, and probably wouldn’t see again.
Because the reports were promising; they were going to break her, put her back together, turn her, into whatever it is he was supposed to be.
Whatever it is he was supposed to be, and wasn’t.
They’d lost him, too. Just a matter of time till someone figured it out.
“Why?” he asks, tries not to dread the inevitable answer.
Peter gives him that crooked smile, the one that got him into this situation in the first place, and shrugs. “I don’t know. Because I missed you.”
“It’s been a day, Pete,” he says, wearily. “Less than, for you to have gotten here by now.”
“Yeah, but it’s going to be more. You don’t come up there a lot, right? So…my parents are out of town, my brother’s on his honeymoon, and we…we didn’t get enough time in New York.”
We. Of course it was. Brilliant. He could smack the boy.
Does, actually, and doesn’t bother to hold back a smile at the indignant squeak.
“Right, so you come half-way across the country for what, exactly? A fuck?”
“Claude!” the boy gasps, as if personally insulted.
“Well, what, then?” he shrugs. “Anythin’ else, you could’ve written. Even that, actually, you could’ve-“
“I really just wanted to see you, okay?” and he refuses to let the sudden quaver in Peter’s voice intimidate him.
“I’ll get you a photo.”
“Really?” the boy brightens considerably, and Claude begins to hate himself, knowing he probably should’ve started earlier.
A beautiful young man, the other Petrelli.
Dark hair, shining eyes. Pretty lips and a smile to kill for, and he had to know it.
It had to be an act, the blushing, awkward bit; had to be, too much attention paid to him and too much sharpness in the lineage to be anything but.
He was probably the best of all of them, that he could radiate that sort of innocence and neediness and vulnerability in spite of it.
And surveillance was dull, especially of a target that’d spent, as far as he’d observed, most of the night out of place and bored out of his mind as well.
They really might as well keep each other company.
Peter smiles at him, hopeful, and he always has to be so bloody hopeful, even in the face of the less than encouraging welcome he’s been given.
And he still looks at him like he’s…something he’s utterly not, something he’s long since realized is impossible, something that the child (and he has to keep reminding himself of that, because that’s what he is) so desperately needs that it’s depressing.
It’ll drive him mad, all of it, sooner than he expected to be driven mad.
“So…” Peter grins, and Claude wonders if he truly thinks he hasn’t noticed the lean, warm body sliding closer and closer to him along the couch. “Can I stay?”
He looks at him for a moment, searches those soft eyes and knows he couldn’t be responsible for breaking this boy, knows he couldn’t see him know better just yet.
“Yeah, all right,” he sighs, and before he knows it, there’s arms around his neck and an impossibly warm torso pressing up against his, even as he mutters. “Not for a week, though. Just…just…”
“However long you want,” Peter pulls away, which isn’t nearly the improvement Claude figured it would be. Because his face is much too close and those crooked lips are open, wet and parted, and the arms still around his neck aren’t really letting him move as far as he needs to.
And he does need to.
Join up, see the world.
It hadn’t been the exact pitch he’d been given, in as much as he’d been given one at all., but he thought of it like that, in the beginning. Because it’d been his chance, to leave, to be something else.
And the money’d been good, of course, perhaps only by comparison but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was the world he was seeing; and yes, he was different. And there were others, who were different.
The abilities were the least of it, though; the way the world worked, the way the people he met live and acted and were, that’d been what he signed up for.
And that’d been what he’d seen.
What they hadn’t told him, what he hadn’t realized, what had only begun to build in his mind, was the reality: the parts of the world you see aren’t the parts you want.
They’re the broken parts.
And more often then not, it’s you that breaks them.
Peter kisses him.
He knows better than to kiss back, but not enough not to push him away, and there’s a reason for that.
Mostly, it’s because Peter kisses like he needs to, like he needs to more than he needs to breathe.
Like he needs the connection or he’ll be lost, and Claude can’t bear to see someone else lost, not today, not for a while.
And so he lets Peter kiss him, and after a while, letting Peter kiss him becomes letting himself kiss Peter back.
Which becomes letting Peter push him back, corner him against the arm of the couch, and settle against his chest as though he belongs there.
For all he knows, the boy does; truth be told, Claude wonders if there’s a place Peter wouldn’t belong, if that’s what he wanted; he fits everywhere, soft hair and lithe form, dark eyes taking as much as they can, crooked smile giving it back.
He sighs, strokes at the dark brown hair and the warm back, fingers brushing over the wrinkled t-shirt and feeling the heat of the skin underneath.
Kisses him back, harder, the way Peter needs to be kissed.
And it’s very quick, and it’s almost impossible, but he swears the boy flickers.
Out of visibility and back, and anything he’s managed to forget about that possibility, about the hotel in New York, his moment with the limousine keys, isn’t as willing to be pushed back into the realms of coincidence and unlikelihood anymore.
He must stiffen, or flinch, or more likely than not, Peter needs to breathe, because he pulls away, slowly.
Savoring, damn him, all lazy smile and swollen lips, and it’s all he can do to keep from carrying the boy back to his bed (and finally, a bed, it’s become ridiculous with the two of them) and never leaving.
“You okay?” he asks, eyelashes fluttering, and it’s probably unintentional but it threatens to drive Claude mad.
“Yeah, Pete,” he sighs, a hand reaching up to push a strand of hair out of his face. And then Peter’s smiling, resting his cheek against the palm of Claude’s hand.
Like they were something they weren’t; lovers, committed, something special and tender and…he really could kill the boy at this moment.
There were certain corridors he’d long since learned to avoid, if he could.
Well, the first step had been learning they existed; easy enough, for a young man more observant than he was observable.
And he’d managed it, effortlessly, even though he’d expected that a company designed to monitor and assist individuals with enhanced abilities to be a bit better at monitoring their own building and assisting individuals in following the very strict rules they’d been given in terms of access.
It’d almost been too easy, and he’d wondered about that, after.
Once he’d managed to get the screams out of his head and the scent of charred flesh off his skin.
Just his luck to be called down there the day he got back, his suit still smelling of Peter’s overly-earnest cologne that had nearly suffocated him on the drive to the airport.
“You hungry?” Peter mumbles against his palm, and Claude blinks.
“What?”
“I could make, like…a sandwich. Or something. If you…”
The cheek against his hand feels suddenly warmer as Peter ducks his head, and Claude slides his fingers under the boy’s chin. Tilts his head back up, to look more closely at obviously uncomfortable features.
“Peter,” he says, seriously, looking carefully into troubled brown eyes as he feels the boy swallow.
“Yeah?” Peter mumbles, eyes flickering down after a moment and then glancing back up.
“D’you ever think about somethin’ other than feeding me?”
And it takes a moment, of dark eyes staring at him with a focus that makes him check the temptation to fade, before Peter grins.
Flirtatious, crooked, and Claude should’ve known better.
“Oh, yeah. Lots of stuff,” Peter giggles, dropping a kiss to his forehead before he crawls off. “But right now, I’m kinda hungry, so…”
So he’s apparently justified in bounding into an almost-complete stranger’s kitchen and having the refrigerator half-open before its owner can even arrive to explain the lack of anything truly edible in it.
It’s good to know, that.
Part 5