[voluntary] heroes, peter/claire
notes: Because there positively had to be a universe where Claire runs away to New York and stays with Peter and Claude. Spoilers up to 1.14 "Distractions."
warnings (highlight to read): incest. potential consent issues.
voluntary | ~300 words
Peter’s been moody ever since a phone call this morning, and Claude got sick of him. "The puppy’s moping. Take him for a walk, will you?"
Peter went with her willingly enough, but he hasn’t been much by way of company for the past twenty minutes, and the New York chill is starting to get to her.
"Sick of these," he mutters, finally, flicking his chin at the line of perfect white posters.
Claire licks her lips and wishes she brought chapstick. "Yeah?" Breathing in the cold air makes her throat sting.
He slides a sideways glance her way and tucks that lock of hair behind his ear. "He’s my brother," he says. He half-smiles, not really happily but more in a surprised way, at her not knowing. But it's maybe a little pleased, too, she thinks.
She pauses a second before she lets a breath of a laugh escape. "I thought, maybe. Your last names, I mean, so I figured. Is he nice?"
He laughs too, but it's more like a sound Claude would make, than Peter. "If he thinks he can get your vote." Claire can’t tell if he’s kidding.
She smiles--he’s always saying she doesn’t smile enough--and curls her hand into his palm. He tightens his hand around hers comfortably, warming up her cold fingers.
His name is Nathan Petrelli, honey. I think he lives in New York.
She blinks away the sight of the posters, which are like seeing in double, triple, a hundred.
Leaning in, she says, "Let’s talk about something else." They’re in the middle of the sidewalk, but she slides a hand behind his neck and draws him in anyway.
She notices with satisfaction that she’s finally made him smile, and he says, “I thought you said talk,” before she rolls her eyes and lets him close the distance between them.
warnings (highlight to read): incest. potential consent issues.
voluntary | ~300 words
Peter’s been moody ever since a phone call this morning, and Claude got sick of him. "The puppy’s moping. Take him for a walk, will you?"
Peter went with her willingly enough, but he hasn’t been much by way of company for the past twenty minutes, and the New York chill is starting to get to her.
"Sick of these," he mutters, finally, flicking his chin at the line of perfect white posters.
Claire licks her lips and wishes she brought chapstick. "Yeah?" Breathing in the cold air makes her throat sting.
He slides a sideways glance her way and tucks that lock of hair behind his ear. "He’s my brother," he says. He half-smiles, not really happily but more in a surprised way, at her not knowing. But it's maybe a little pleased, too, she thinks.
She pauses a second before she lets a breath of a laugh escape. "I thought, maybe. Your last names, I mean, so I figured. Is he nice?"
He laughs too, but it's more like a sound Claude would make, than Peter. "If he thinks he can get your vote." Claire can’t tell if he’s kidding.
She smiles--he’s always saying she doesn’t smile enough--and curls her hand into his palm. He tightens his hand around hers comfortably, warming up her cold fingers.
His name is Nathan Petrelli, honey. I think he lives in New York.
She blinks away the sight of the posters, which are like seeing in double, triple, a hundred.
Leaning in, she says, "Let’s talk about something else." They’re in the middle of the sidewalk, but she slides a hand behind his neck and draws him in anyway.
She notices with satisfaction that she’s finally made him smile, and he says, “I thought you said talk,” before she rolls her eyes and lets him close the distance between them.