Turn On the Light (Fic, Peter/Claire)

[crashgirl82]

Title: Turn On the Light
Pairing: Peter/Claire, a mention of Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17 to be safe
Warnings: Incest, Sexual Content, Dark Themes, Angst, Violence, Language, AU
Spoilers: Season 1, mentions of happenings in season 2 and 3. This story takes place in an alternate reality during the time of season 4.
Summary: Claire uses an unconventional method to help Peter deal with the fact that unlike everyone else, he will live forever, and it doesn’t go according to plan.

A/N: Claire is eighteen in this story and is therefore not underage. This is kind of Paire, but it's really more about Nathan and Peter. They have a close platonic relationship with just one past sexual encounter, no major Petrelli slashiness. Comment please, and enjoy like always.

Claire Bennet had been waiting for this day for almost two weeks now. A chance to finally spend some quality time alone with the man she loved more than anything. A chance to experience more than just a secret stolen kiss, a quick encounter in the witching hour.
Peter Petrelli didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm, though.

Angela, the matriarch of the Petrelli family, had left yesterday for parts unknown; the only information she had given was that she would return in a week. Her father, Senator Nathan Petrelli, was finishing his coffee at the kitchen table with his brother and his daughter. He had business in Washington, D.C., and he would be gone for the whole day. Claire was off from school, a very infrequent occurrence on a Wednesday.

Knowing all this, in order to get this time alone with Claire, Peter had called in sick to work, having woken up early so that the hospice nursing service would have time enough to find a replacement for him.

The funny thing about that, though, was that Peter didn’t ever get sick, and neither did Claire, thanks to their ability to heal instantaneously from any injury. Rapid cellular regeneration--a wonderful thing, really.

Claire Bennet and Peter Petrelli really would be together forever.

Claire couldn’t wait for her father to walk out that door so she could get her hands on Peter. After an agonizingly long wait, Nathan got to his feet, and Peter and Claire did as well.

“All right, Claire, I’m out of here. I’ll see you later on tonight.” Nathan pulled his daughter in for a hug and kiss on her cheek, and then embraced his younger brother. There was something in Peter’s eyes that Nathan didn’t like, something he couldn’t quite make out.

“Hey, give me a smile, Pete, you look like a lost little kid.” Nathan placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, and Peter did as he asked. Though Nathan could tell he had forced it, he wouldn’t worry about it too much. He knew his brother’s life was far from easy, but Peter always pulled through, no matter what.

Nathan hugged Peter again, and through the force of Peter’s embrace Nathan could tell that the younger man didn’t really want to let go.

“Come on, Pete, I have to go, or I’ll miss my flight. See you tonight. Have a good day.” Nathan put on his suit jacket, grabbed his small carry-on and left.

Peter sat down heavily in his chair, and was silent for a minute. He then grumbled through a mouthful of cereal, “A man who can fly is worried about missing his goddamned plane.” He dropped his spoon, and it clattered into the bowl. Half the cereal was left, but he didn’t want it anymore.

“Oh, Peter. You know he can’t just take to the sky whenever he feels like it. He has to be careful. We all do. You know that.”

When ten minutes had passed, and Peter had not said a word, Claire got up, stood behind him, and put her arms around him. She kissed his temple. “Oh, what is it, baby? Tell me.”

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” Peter sighed.

Claire kissed his neck, pulled his collar aside so she could kiss his shoulder. “Come on, Peter. What the hell put you in such a bad mood? You were happy when you woke up today. Today is our day. It feels like we’ve been waiting forever.”

“Forever.” He laughed bitterly, and he picked up his spoon and began swirling the soggy cereal around in the bowl, paying no attention to Claire’s advances.

“We have all the time in the world, Claire. Literally. Eventually, one day we can even be together without having to hide it,” Peter said, sullenly staring down into his cereal. “After all, you know, we’ll both outlive everyone that knows we’re related.”

Claire’s heart sunk. Not this again. Not today, of all days. Peter was doing it again. She couldn’t deal with Peter when he was like this. Peter would be fine one day, but the next he would brood over the fact that he and Claire would most likely live forever, but not everyone else he loved would. There was one certain person that he obsessed over the most: his brother Nathan.

Claire had learned to accept this difficult truth, that she would continually lose people to the cruel hands of time while she endured, but Peter was devastated that he would outlive his brother. He would get himself so depressed he couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even bring himself to make love to her, and it would sometimes last for days.

Claire wondered if she could stop him from doing this to himself. She sat in his lap and lifted his downcast head, kissed him gently. “Peter, do you know what I do when I think about things like that?”

“No, what?” Peter asked, blinking back tears.

Claire got up and went to the long granite counter where Angela Petrelli kept the knife block. She deliberated for a moment, and chose one. She rubbed the edge of it against her thumb, and was satisfied with the sharpness of its edge. She pressed the blade to her thumb again until she drew blood.

Peter was watching her closely, a frightened look in those beautiful brown eyes.

“I cut myself. Over and over and over again. Sometimes, I cut really deep and I try to see how long I can keep the wound from healing. I watch the blood run down my arm, drip down from my hand. Once I passed out in the bathtub I held it for so long. It’s almost like dying. When it’s over, I feel better about knowing I probably never will.”

“Show me,” Peter said, his heart beginning to race. Claire saw that frightened look in his eyes change to anticipation.

“All right,” Claire said. She took him by the hand and led him upstairs, into Nathan Petrelli’s bedroom. “You hurt because of him? You’re going to do it in his bathroom then.”

Peter gave her an uneasy half-smile and let out a nervous chuckle. “I--I didn’t say I was going to do it, Claire. I thought you were going to show me.”

Claire laughed. “I am going to show you. I’m going to show you how to do it to yourself.”

Peter looked like he was about to bolt, so she shoved him into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it. She turned on the light switch, then set the knife down on the edge of the bathtub. Claire pushed Peter against the door, and kissed him roughly, then stepped away from him and stripped off her clothes, folded them neatly and set them on the bathroom counter. Claire said, “You do this naked. You don’t want to get any blood on your clothes.”

Peter realized that Claire was sharing an extremely personal, clandestine ritual with him, so he raised his arms and allowed Claire to slip his shirt over his head. Claire then unbuckled his belt, pushed his jeans and briefs down off his narrow hips. Peter was rock hard, as she knew he would be. She hadn’t mentioned to him that before she began mutilating and healing herself, she was usually so aroused thinking about doing it that she would masturbate herself to a shaking, quivering orgasm. She decided Peter should have the same.

Claire folded his clothes and placed them with hers, while Peter took off his watch.

She thought, Yeah, definitely take that off. That’s the wrist you’re going to be cutting.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down, his back facing the shower wall, and Peter sat on the edge of the tub. Claire knelt before him.

Claire suggested, her voice lowering seductively, “I know thinking about doing this can be extremely…arousing. Want a little something special first, baby?” She took hold of him and ran her hand along his length, making him groan and close his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, this time giving her his full, slightly crooked smile. Claire thought he was so beautiful when he smiled, and he didn’t do it nearly enough, so she cherished every one she could get out of him.

Peter gripped the edge of the tub, and braced his feet on the cool tile floor.

Claire lowered her head in between Peter’s legs, her honey blonde hair tickling the inside of his thigh. That tickling feeling was maddening, so Peter pushed her hair back out of her face. Besides, he liked to be able to see her when she did this. Peter got a serious thrill wondering what Nathan would do if he found out his daughter was blowing his younger brother in his private bathroom.

I wish he would find out. Maybe he’d be jealous then, Peter thought darkly.

Claire slid her lips up and down his shaft, kissing him, then licking him. She teased the tip for a little bit, then took him in her mouth, sucking him slowly at first, rubbing him against the inside of her cheeks. Every so often her tongue flicked and slid against that extremely sensitive place right below the head, making his breath catch and his hips jerk.

Eventually, she moved faster, and Peter supported his weight with his arms, and thrust his hips, almost choking her, making her take all of him, until his head fell back, his body shuddered, and her mouth and throat filled with his come. He breathed heavily, his heart slowing, recovering while Claire made sure every inch of him was clean.

“I love when you do that for me,” he grunted in a low voice.

Claire got up and rinsed her mouth out at the sink, took a few sips of water out of the faucet. Without a word, she went back to him and sat down at his left side. Peter slipped his hand in between her thighs, but Claire stopped him.

“Not now, baby. A little later. Let’s do this first. I want you to feel better.”

“Okay,” Peter replied, reluctantly holding out his left arm.

Claire lifted his wrist to her lips and pressed a kiss to the place where she was going to cut him. Claire directed his arm over the tub, holding his hand palm up in her left hand, picking up the knife in her right. She laid the blade against his wrist, over the veins that showed blue under his light skin.

“Are you ready?” she asked, increasing the pressure slightly.

Peter nodded, his heartbeat accelerating to a frantic rhythm once again.

She drew the blade back, slicing open his skin, leaving a very deep wound. There was hardly any pain. Although in actuality it happened very quickly, to Peter it seemed like an eternity had elapsed before the thin, long slit across his wrist began to bleed, and when it did, Peter inhaled sharply, shocked at the speed at which blood ran into his palm, over Claire’s fingers, and finally dripped down, leaving dark crimson starbursts on the snow white porcelain. The wound closed a moment later.

Claire licked some of Peter’s blood from her fingers; the coppery taste of it had always aroused her, and her inner thighs were instantly wet. But Peter wasn’t going to be able to help her with that right now. He was the one who needed help.

“Doesn’t hurt that much, does it?” she asked, and set the knife back down.

“No.” Peter’s voice had become very quiet, and he looked absolutely terrified.

“Go ahead, baby, it’s your turn now.”

Peter stared at the knife, his blood glossing its glinting steel edge, but he did not reach over for it.

Claire picked up the knife and placed it in his right hand, almost having to force him to close his shaking fingers around the smooth black handle. He raised the blade to his wrist, and his hand shook even worse.

She kissed his throat, feeling his pulse fluttering under her lips. She whispered, “Come on, Peter. You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you? Getting the courage up to make that first cut? Thrilling and sickening all at the same time.”

Peter’s voice was weak as he said, “Yeah, but I can’t do it, Claire. I’m not like you. You used to try to kill yourself in ways I could never imagine anyone wanting to suffer. This must be easy for you. But I just can’t do it.”

Claire thought, You don’t know how wrong you are, Peter. It’s never easy.

“Peter, I can’t do it for you. It won’t work. You have to inflict the wound if you want to keep yourself from healing long enough.”

That was what excited Peter about this thing that Claire was trying to get him to do. To hold off his ability to heal long enough to bring himself close to death, and then come back like nothing had ever happened. He had died and been resurrected of course, but that wasn’t the same. Someone else had dealt the blow that incapacitated him. Thinking of doing this to himself excited him because Peter could hardly control anything else in his life, and ultimately, this was something he could control.

Peter sighed, took a deep breath, and willed himself to pull the razor sharp edge over his skin, making a shallow cut that barely bled before disappearing entirely. Something tore loose inside his chest, as if violent fingers had reached inside him and ripped away a piece of his heart. To his surprise, he began to cry.

Claire looked into Peter’s eyes, an impossibly dark brown color now. She watched the tears fall, and she followed their path with her gaze as they slipped down his face. The cold hand of fear gripped her; in all the times she had ever done this to herself, she had never cried on the first cut. Never.

But this was Peter. Peter was not like her at all. He felt every emotion way too much for his own good, and because of that, Claire knew that this was going to get really bad before it started to get better. She had dragged him into this, and no matter how frightened she was, it was up to her to be here for him when he needed her.

Claire stroked the side of his face and tucked away a stray lock of his hair. “Peter, you okay?”

He looked at her, panic in his soft dark eyes, and said, his voice breaking, “I don’t know, Claire. Something just happened inside me. I’m afraid. I’m scared of what’s going to come out of me if I do it again.”

Claire ran her fingers through his hair and leaned in close, her lips inches from his ear. She whispered, “I know. I know you’re scared. But I also know you understand now why I do it. It’s all going to come out, and whether you like it or not, you need it out. Do it again. This time tell yourself the wound needs to stay open. Tell your body that you need this. You need to bleed in order to heal. Do it again,” she commanded.

Peter cut again, this time with a little more pressure, and the wound did not close right away. He bled enough to drip once, twice, three times, painting three more crimson blossoms on the floor of the bathtub, and then he healed. Peter clapped his hand to his mouth, and bit back a sob, leaving a trace of blood on his lips. “No, I can’t--I can’t do it!”

“Yes, you can. Again,” Claire urged, moving his arm back over the bathtub.

A third time he cut himself, just as deeply as Claire had, and this time he held his arm out and watched as his blood flowed freely, covering his hand, running through the lines of his palm, down his fingers, coating an ever-increasing area of the porcelain. His heart was crashing against his ribs, each beat pushing more and more of his life-force out of him.

After a few minutes of watching himself bleed, he became morbidly fascinated with the amount that had drained from him into the tub. There was just so much blood, more than he could have ever imagined, all coming from his own body.

Peter knelt on the floor, overcome by a dull ache that had taken refuge within him. Fixated on all that blood, he reached down and spread his fingers through it, traced the letters of his brother’s name, one on top of the next.

Nathan. I love you, Nathan. I love you and I don’t want you to leave me all alone here forever.

There was a wrenching in his chest, and the dull ache suddenly exploded inside him, as if his heart had hardened into glass and shattered in him. He wondered if maybe he had driven the knife into his own chest, impaling his heart in the process. He raised his hand and pressed it to his chest, then pulled it away, leaving a scarlet handprint behind.

No knife.

Just his own unbroken skin, his heart pounding madly beneath. He looked over and saw that he still held the knife in his right hand.

One more, Peter thought.

Without hesitation, Peter brought the knife back to his bleeding wrist and cut once more, crossing the already open wound. That cut had hurt, and a desperate, pain-filled scream escaped him.

The knife clattered to the tile, ruby droplets hitting his bare feet, and Peter began to cry harder. He inhaled in ragged gasps, and his exhalations were sobs that seemed to tear from his throat, the sounds of a wounded animal crying out for help. He kept on like this until he was just about exhausted.

“I don’t want him to leave me, Claire! I don’t want Nathan to die! I don’t want to live forever if he can’t!”

His head lowered, and his chin dropped to his chest. He cried softly now, the tears positively streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking. He felt incredibly weak, and his mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. Peter breathed, “It’s not fair. Not fair. I can’t live without him. I can’t live forever without Nathan. I’m gonna miss him so much, Claire. I’m nothing without him. When he dies, I’m gonna be alone.”

Claire sat down next to him and wrapped her arms around him. “That’s not true, baby. He may die, but he’ll always be with you. You see all that?” Claire pointed to the pool inside the tub.

Peter wiped his eyes, and his nose, and his breath hitched in his throat. “Yeah?” he choked.

“Nathan is your brother. That’s his blood too. As long as you’re alive, he’ll always be alive in you.”

That explanation was not enough for Peter, and he continued to cry, resting his forehead on the cool surface of the porcelain, his injured arm hanging over the edge, his other hand clutching the side of the bathtub.

He had lost a lot of blood now, and it was becoming difficult to hold himself up. He turned his head towards her, his gaze taking on a scary, dreamy quality. He stopped shaking, and he leaned against her, pressing his head to her chest. He was fighting to talk now, and he spoke very slowly, slurring a little. “I love him…and I’m gonna lose…him. It isn’t…fair. Claire…I don’t…feel well.”

His skin was pale and cool to the touch, and his breaths came very lightly against her breast. Claire couldn’t believe he had held it this long, but she took solace in that it was almost over; Peter would lose consciousness very soon, and he would heal, hopefully inside as well as out.

Peter was lightheaded now, and his vision was dimming, all the color in the room waning, all the objects in the room turning to deep black, stark white, the occasional shade of gray. The light coming from the fluorescent bulbs overhead seemed to fade away, and then disappear completely. He felt no pain now, neither emotional nor physical, and the relief was such that he could have laughed, but the only problem was he couldn’t catch his breath. Darkness now; no need to hold his eyes open anymore. His eyelids closed, and he heard Claire’s voice comforting him, telling him she loved him, telling him everything was going to be fine. She sounded as though she were moving further and further away.

Peace took him in its arms and held him as if he were a child, rocking him to sleep. Claire was right. Everything would be fine…maybe…if he could stop himself from losing his brother. It would take everything he had left, every last bit he could muster out of his remaining strength. Peter couldn’t live without Nathan, but Nathan could live without him. He was absolutely sure of it.

Claire stroked his cheek and kissed the top of his head. “It’s all right, baby. It’s all over now. Go to sleep, Peter, and it’ll be all better when you wake up.”

Peter whispered, “I don’t…want…to. I think I…can hold it back. Maybe I don’t have to…live forever.”

His words chilled her as if she’d been suddenly submerged deep into an ice cold ocean. What had she done? This was not supposed to happen. She had only tried to help him, and now Peter was trying to commit suicide? No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this.

Claire cried, “Peter, no! No! Stop! Heal yourself! Peter? Peter!” She slapped his cheek, but he didn’t wake.

Peter had passed out, and his full weight was too heavy for her to hold up. He slid to the bathroom floor, and all Claire could do was prevent his head from hitting the tile. His blood was everywhere, all over him, her, the floor, the side of the tub. Claire pleaded, “Please, Peter, don’t do this! Please! Oh, God!”

The man she loved was a heartrending sight; his skin was ashen, and there were angry scarlet smears on his face, chest, and his belly, where his injured wrist now rested. She leaned over him and put her ear close to his slightly parted lips; he was breathing, just barely. Claire grabbed a hand towel and wiped his left wrist, hoping that his injury had repaired.

Clean, perfect white skin, light blue veins beneath. He had healed. His body was recovering. Peter had not succeeded.

She let go of the breath she’d been holding, and she pressed a kiss to his bluish lips, so very cold to her warm skin. Claire ran the bathwater to rinse Peter’s blood from the tub, and she could only pray that all the pain that had tormented him swirled down the drain along with it.

She painstakingly cleaned up her lover’s body, and then went to work on the floor and the side of the bathtub. When she finished, she put her clothes on, knelt back down, and waited. Peter’s color gradually returned, and his eyes opened.

He bolted upright; the tile floor was like a sheet of ice beneath him. “What--what happened?” he asked, placing a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Why is there blood all over your face?”

Claire wiped her face with another towel. “You really don’t remember?”

Peter blinked confusedly, and said, “I’m not sure. I was dreaming…Nathan and I, we were together in a dark empty room. We were a lot younger though. I was still a little kid, he was maybe a little older than you. He was holding me in his arms…and he was saying something in my ear, but at first it was so hard to understand him, because I was so tired. I just couldn’t fall asleep though, because he wouldn’t stop. Finally I heard what it was. He was repeating over and over, ‘Peter, turn on the light’. So I opened my eyes, and there was a light switch on the wall next to us. I told him no, because I was tired and I wanted to go to sleep. But he just wouldn’t stop.”

Peter paused, trying to remember the dream. “Nathan kept telling me to turn on the light, so I opened my eyes again, and he put me down. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t done it himself, why I had to do it. The switch was so high up, I could barely reach it, but I did. The light came on, but when I turned around, Nathan was gone. I couldn’t understand why he would want me to turn on the light so badly, and then leave.”

Claire looked at him in shock, understanding the meaning of his dream. She embraced him, and she almost started to cry in relief: he was warm now, so warm, so alive. “Peter, you dreamed that he saved you. But you really saved yourself. You would have died if you didn’t flip that switch. You suppressed your healing ability so deeply that you almost…oh, Peter, I’m so sorry.”

Recognition flickered in Peter’s eyes, all of what had happened coming back to him in an instant. Peter whispered, “Oh, no. No, no, don’t say you’re sorry. It’s not your fault. You tried to help me. I took it too far. I was being selfish. Only worrying about myself. If I had actually done it, I would have hurt you, and Mom, and...”

Peter stood up and dressed silently, his hands shaking so badly he could barely buckle his belt.

“I can’t believe I tried to do that,” he said, looking at his reflection in the mirror, hating the weakness he saw in the eyes of the person staring back at him.

Claire hazarded a question. Now that she knew he was okay, she had to know if it all had been worth it, if she had helped him. “How do you feel, Peter?”

“I--I don’t know, Claire, but one thing I do know is that I need to be by myself right now. Just for a little while. Please understand.”

He turned around, took her in his arms and kissed her fervently. He slid his hands under her shirt, fondling her nipples, then moved one hand around to her back, down, into her pants, and gave her ass a quick squeeze. “Just for a little while, Claire,” he repeated, catching her green eyes in an intense gaze. Claire smiled, knowing what that look in his eyes meant, what he was going to do with her once he was finished dealing with this.

“Okay, baby. I’ll be in the shower, and after that, I’ll be in your bed.” Claire gathered up the bloodstained towels.

“Okay. Wait one second.” Peter looked around his brother’s bathroom, checking to make sure there wasn’t a trace of his blood anywhere. He picked up the now immaculate kitchen knife from the floor and handed it to her quickly. After today, he never wanted to hold a knife again. “Don’t want to forget this,” he said.

“No, definitely not,” Claire agreed.

She left the bathroom, and Peter replaced the missing towels with new clean ones. Nathan was extremely fastidious and would notice if a single thing was not exactly the way that he had left it. He gave the room one more quick check and was satisfied.

Peter lay down on his brother’s bed, careful not to disturb the pillows or wrinkle the comforter, his mind filled with thoughts of him.

Peter began to think of all the times he had come in here as a child and slipped under the covers with Nathan after having a terrible dream. Nathan would bitch and complain, but then he would hold him close and within minutes, Peter would be fast asleep.

He remembered the time he’d been sick with the flu, and Nathan had taken care of him. He had waited hand and foot on his little brother every single day until he was better.

And then there was his twenty-first birthday, the day that had changed everything.

He and Nathan, both smashed drunk, had come in here and Nathan had literally thrown himself at Peter, confessing a forbidden fantasy he’d had about having sex with his little brother, saying he wanted to give him a birthday present he’d never forget. Peter had been scared and confused, but Nathan had always had a way of convincing Peter to do just about anything. Peter had let Nathan do things to him that he would have never dreamed of doing with any other man.

Peter had really enjoyed that night, and had wished they could do it again. But no matter how many times after that he offered himself to Nathan, he would unconditionally turn Peter down, refusing to touch him like that ever again.

Eventually Peter had just let it go, but he hadn’t let go the way he felt about his older brother. He had always looked up to him, admired him, worshipped him even, but ever since then, it had become so much more. Nathan did not treat Peter any differently, he loved him the same as always, but Nathan never again returned those particular feelings in kind.

That was part of the reason Peter had started his relationship with Nathan’s daughter, in a kind of spiteful way almost, rationalizing that if he couldn’t have Nathan, he would have Claire in the place of him. Then he’d fallen in love with her. Even so, he still wanted Nathan, still loved him. His feelings for Nathan would never change.

The mood swings had started about a year after Nathan had been shot by the future incarnation of Peter and had recovered. Peter’s introverted, empathic nature, his ever-enduring guilt, combined with all the times he had nearly lost Nathan, had caused him to mourn Nathan’s death before it had even happened. That would stop today.

From this day forward, Peter promised himself he would cherish every moment that he did share with his older brother, so he’d have plenty to think back on once Nathan really was gone, over the decades, centuries, possibly even millennia to come.

Nathan’s life was like a star, and his death would be a supernova, a final, beautiful display, and his light would travel eternally through the infinite universe that was Peter, never truly lost, never completely leaving him, never fading away.

Claire had been right. Peter would never be alone. Nathan Petrelli would always live while Peter Petrelli was alive.

Claire, he thought. She’s probably wondering what the hell’s taking me so long.

Peter left his brother’s room and went to his own, where Claire lay under his covers, all soft skin, fragrant hair, sweet kisses. Peter lost himself in the everlasting paradise of her body, feeling lighter and happier than he had in a long, long while. Claire had helped him more than she’d ever know, so much, today especially. Today was their day, and they would have so many more.

Forever, after all, was a really, really long time.

***

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. Please don’t forget to comment, and thanks for reading.